


Rabbit in Your Headlights

by KatsatheGraceling



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison Argent, Alive Allison Argent & Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Demon Stiles, Demon Stiles Stilinski, M/M, References to Supernatural (TV), Supernatural Elements, Yeah that's right, erica and boyd are alive because that's the way uhuh uhuh i like it, hell yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Stiles?” Allison’s voice was frantic over the phone.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles immediately jolted upright in bed, clutching the cell close to his ear. “Allison? What’s the matter?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Something’s wrong with Scott. I don’t—please, he’s acting—” she cut herself off.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Acting like what?” There was no answer. “Allison, like what?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Possessed,” she whispered.</i>
</p><p>AU where Stiles was always a demon, and Scott is the one who gets possessed by the nogitsune. Stiles is not happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CapsAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapsAngel/gifts).



> Okay. So. I know my timelines don’t work. Let’s just pretend for now that they do. Please? Jeff Davis can’t tell time so I refuse to believe that my version is too far off. I also sort of ignore the existence of an alpha pack because they’re mean and I hate them.
> 
> Also, no knowledge of Supernatural is required for this fic. I butcher demon powers so much that it doesn’t matter anyhow.
> 
> Title from UNKLE.
> 
> TW: It’s a bit gorey. Stiles is a demon, so he talks really casually about death and blood and all that yummy stuff. Basically normal TV warnings. Also, there is talk of miscarriage, but no actual one happens.

Przemysław Genim Stilinski was a miracle. He was born to a mother who had been considered barren, born prematurely, and came out with no lasting effects. The doctors considered the newborn’s recovery nothing short of an act of God.

When, really, it was the Devil’s doing. Sort of.

With Lucifer in the pit and Crowley in control, Stiles decided it was time for him to lay low. Crowley had held a grudge against him since the Dark Ages, and now that the demon had deemed himself ‘King of Hell’, Stiles figured it was in his best interest to find a place to hide.

Of course, his name wasn’t Stiles at the time. His real name was buried deep within the minds of a select few, most of which were nearly as old as time itself. 

He stumbled across a couple, a woman and a man, who prayed nightly. The demon intercepted their prayers, listening in on their desires. He found exactly what he was looking for.

The demon hovered in their house for weeks, months (time was irrelevant to him then), watching over the pair. He decided they were perfect.

The woman, a Claudia Stilinski, was born with a defect that made it impossible for her to bear children. It was no difficulty at all to repair her body, and it only took a small suggestion to both of their minds to get them to copulate that night.

Of course, no child conceived with the help of demon magic would have a soul, but that wouldn’t be a problem.

The doctors were baffled at the Stilinski woman’s pregnancy. They warned her of the risks, warned her that the child may not make it to full term, and most likely would have physical and mental problems if it did.

Claudia didn’t care.

She loved the small being inside her with a passion that puzzled the demon. The demon found himself often tapping into the woman’s thoughts, enthralled. She was not stupid. She knew that the world was a harsh place, that she might never get to hold the child growing inside of her, and yet she _didn’t care._

Her love for both her husband and the baby tugged at something deep within the demon. His long forgotten humanity rarely reared its head, but he felt something deep within him itch as he watched John and Claudia Stilinski cry tears of joy as they clutched at the small sonogram photo.

He continued to watch over the family, keeping the woman out of harm’s way—Claudia acted as if she was trying to get herself killed with how clumsy she was. The demon had to fix her footing several times, and planted the idea in John’s head to fix the piece of wood that was sticking up near the top of the stairs.

He looked upon them as they hesitantly set up a nursery, smiling at each other all the way through with shaky smiles. 

As the pregnancy went on, their smiles became more confident, less scared. They began to discuss names. Claudia wanted to name the child after her father, keeping the Polish roots of the family. John let her have whatever she desired.

They made plans around the soon-to-come baby, hearts filled with hope and happiness.

The child was born early in the morning on April 8th, 1994, by an emergency cesarean. Even the demon’s magic couldn’t force Claudia’s body to carry the child to full term. 

Przemysław Genim Stilinski was born a full nine weeks early, his small heart weak but still pumping, and his body without a soul.

The demon leapt at the chance, entering the child and taking root, the road made easy by not having to shove aside a pre-existing soul.

Now, with the demon magic running directly through the child’s body, Przemysław made a miraculous recovery. The doctors weren’t quite sure what to make of it. They had informed John and Claudia that for a child to be born that early meant that the brain wasn’t fully developed, and their child would grow up with both mental and physical disabilities.

Instead, Przemysław showed no signs of any mental underdevelopment. His body was still extremely small and fragile, but the next few weeks were spent observing as the baby grew and thrived as if he was carried to full term.

The doctors were astonished, but eventually they had to release Przemysław, having no reason to keep watch. They warned John and Claudia of the signs of brain damage, of how they might—and most likely would—present later.

With wide smiles and wet eyes, John and Claudia brought their son home.

The demon found it quite an experience, possessing a body with such limited capabilities. He wasn’t sure if it counted as possession anymore; he had full reign over the body, no other mind trying to fight their way back to the surface.

Even while possessing a body, the demon didn’t need sustenance. So when Claudia tried to put a bottle to his lips, he refused to open his mouth. She tried coaxing him into eating, but he simply wouldn’t. It wasn’t until he overheard her calling the doctor in a panic that the demon remembered that eating was something a human had to do, and often. In order to not raise suspicion, the next time Claudia approached him with that infuriating bottle, he opened his mouth and guzzled the entire thing.

He even had to keep up the charade further, letting the formula pass through him—because a baby that didn’t need diaper changes was unnatural.

So the demon grew, drinking the horrible formula and laughing like a baby should when the woman thought she was hiding from him behind her hands.

He learned to respond to the name Przemysław, learned to smile and coo at his mother and father. Learned to lift his hands when he wanted up, and play with the inane blocks and toys they set in front of him.

He skipped crawling altogether. When Przemysław found he had enough strength at seven months, he simply stood and toddled over to his mother, who stood in shocked awe. Claudia immediately scooped her son into her arms, smiling brightly and calling for her husband.

When set back on the ground, Przemysław only made it halfway to his father before his chubby limbs became too heavy, and he fell forward flat onto his face.

Annoyed, Przemysław grunted, and looked up to see his father looking at him with a look of horror. Przemysław plopped onto his butt, sitting upright and looking at John, puzzled.

“He doesn’t cry,” said John, voice still tight with worry.

“He’s strong,” Claudia agreed, and sat down behind her child, setting him in her lap.

“I agree, but he _never_ cries.” John looked at Claudia with worry. “Is that normal?”

Claudia frowned at her husband. “He’s our little _dziecko._ He’ll never be normal.” John opened his mouth to argue, but Claudia leveled his with a look. “If he doesn’t feel like crying, then he won’t. It’s up to him.”

Lips tight, John nodded, silently agreeing to drop the subject.

* * *

Przemysław didn’t speak for the longest time. He was three and had yet to utter his first word. John grew worried, but Claudia refused to believe anything was wrong with her little boy.

“Claudia,” John said gently. “The doctors warned us to watch out for things like this. It could be serious.”

“Or he could just be shy,” Claudia refuted.

Przemysław had been unaware of how his silence was worrying them. He never saw the need to speak. Claudia always knew what he wanted; they had a language of their own, made up of hand gestures and random English and Polish words mixed in. It was difficult, having thousands of years worth of knowledge, but a tongue too weak to speak. By the time he had control over the little pink fiend, there wasn’t a reason to talk.

“One of the signs of autism is—”

“He is _not_ autistic!”

“It’s not a bad thing,” John immediately tried to backpedal. “It’s just best if we know early.”

Claudia pleaded, “He understands just fine.”

“Just a quick trip to the hospital would let us know if—”

The last thing the demon wanted was to be taken back to the hospital and examined.

“No,” Przemysław said decisively. Both parents turned to him, shocked. “No, Daddy. No hospital.”

The room was silent for a few beats, before Claudia turned a smug grin to her husband.

* * *

Now that Przemysław was speaking, he never could seem to stop. He copied Claudia’s actions on what was considered normal human behavior, and apparently being social was one of them. He copied her clumsiness as well, pretending he had inherited it from her.

He had to allow this body to bruise, too, and constantly banged and scraped his elbows and knees as proof that he was a ‘happy little boy’. Claudia and John laughed everytime he stumbled over his own feet, or was so hyper that he couldn’t hold still.

He talked about anything and everything to whoever would listen. Przemysław learned quickly that he could avoid real questions if he talked long enough. Constantly speaking but saying nothing.

* * *

Przemysław began to go by ‘Stiles’ after his first day of school. His kindergarten teacher butchered his name so badly that he cringed. The other students had laughed, and Przemysław felt the small body fill with rage, heart pumping faster. Przemysław was a good name, an honorable name—it meant he was _clever._ Claudia had chosen his name with great care, and it was rude how the other children were disrespecting her.

In that tiny classroom with everyone around him laughing, Przemysław felt the power surge inside of him, fueled by his anger, and the teacher suddenly dropped to the ground, out cold.

_Oops,_ he thought as the entire class went into uproar. Many of the children began to cry; all but one tiny redhead, who was looking at Przemysław in such a way that chilled him to the core.

A banshee, his senses supplied him. A latent banshee, hidden away in this tiny town along with a demon from Hell. Curious.

Their class was canceled that day, and Przemysław’s mother was the one to pick him up. As he climbed into her Jeep, he immediately asked, “Mommy, what’s a nickname?” He hated asking questions he knew the answer to, but it was one of the easiest tactics of manipulation. Children were the best at manipulation.

Claudia, it seemed, was born to be a mother. She took all of Przemysław’s questions in stride, never faltering at his incessant quizzing. “A nickname,” she answered, “is a different name, one that is not the name you were born with, that people call you.”

“I want a nickname,” he declared.

“Why so?”

“The stupid teacher got my name all wrong.”

“Przemysław,” his mother’s tone dropped in warning. “It’s not nice to call people that.” But Przemysław could see the smile flirting around her lips. “So you want a nickname to be called at school?”

Przemysław nodded, pouting. “They all laughed at my name.”

Claudia frowned. “I’m sorry that happened, _kochanie._ Children are mean to what they don’t understand. Do you have a name in mind?”

Przemysław paused for a moment, thinking of how his father was always being called by his last name at work. _Stilinski…_

“Stiles,” Przemysław said, tone showing he was unwilling to be persuaded otherwise.

“Stiles...” his mother tried out the name on her lips, and a smile lit up both of their faces at how natural it sounded. “I like it.”

Stiles came to school the next day with a note from his mother requesting the teacher to please refer to him as ‘Stiles’, and the boy was never happier.

* * *

Stiles was diagnosed with ADHD only five months later. He tried to pay attention in school, or at least pretend like he was listening, but it was so hard for him to sit through the teacher repeating herself ten times that this was the color _blue,_ and _no,_ Bryan should _not_ stick the crayon up his nose. So his mind was constantly wandering; now that he had form, time no longer slipped past him—meaning he actually had to sit through an entire hour of learning the alphabet.

He didn’t agree with the teacher that referred him; there was nothing wrong with his brain—but the doctors were handing out ADHD diagnoses like they were prizes for any child who couldn’t get their small body to hold unnaturally still for hours at a time. Still, he figured any diagnosis might get him off the hook later on, so he went with it, acting up in front of the doctor until he ticked the little ‘yes’ box.

People were so easy.

* * *

It was in second grade that he met Scott. Scott McCall transferred into Stiles’ homeroom a month into the school year, wide eyes and shaggy hair. He looked lost, so overwhelmed by the new environment that he wouldn’t let go of his mother’s leg.

Stiles looked at the new boy and saw something rare. He saw purity—honest and genuine _goodness_ — a trait that was near impossible to find, even in children this age. He had found it in Claudia Stilinski, and now he had found it in Scott McCall. He knew he had to keep this boy close.

So he picked himself up from where he was playing with Lydia Martin’s hair and stood directly in front of the puppy-faced boy. He did a quick scan of the boy’s mind, and said, “Do you like Batman?”

The boy’s eyes lit up, his hand slipping from his mother’s in his excitement. “Yeth!” he spoke with a slight lisp. “He’th my favorite.”

Stiles smiled. Hook, line, and sinker. “Mine too. Did you know that I have a Batman backpack?”

“Wow!” Scott was bouncing up and down with happiness at making a new friend. “Can I thee?”

And so a friendship was forged. Scott was incredibly likable, but just socially awkward enough that his social circle never expanded to more than just Stiles. They became the social outcasts, while beauties like Lydia and Jackson rose to the top. Neither of them minded, however, as long as they had each other.

Stiles’s parents were ecstatic over Stiles making a friend, as were Scott’s. Claudia and Melissa quickly became friends, sharing stories of what their sons got up to.

All the while the demon was hoarding the pure boy all to himself, keeping him from becoming tainted. This one he would keep for himself.


	2. Chapter 2

For the longest time, life went on as usual, the demon blending in perfectly with the humans. He even developed a ‘crush’ on Lydia—as apparently it was normal for young boys to develop crushes.

Then, when Stiles was seven, his mother began to act differently. Forgetting things, random mood swings, nightmares. Stiles took a peek inside her head, only to start at what he found. A disease, festering in the front of her brain. Stiles could see what it had taken from her, what it would take from her. There was no cure. Even his demon magic couldn’t tamper with something so delicate, not after what he had already done for her.

Claudia Stilinski was going to die. And she had no clue.

The demon waited it out for months, having no choice but to let the disease take her. He did what he could to make it painless, but eventually John and Claudia noticed enough symptoms to take her to the hospital.

There, she was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, and given two years to live.

She lasted seven months. 

Stiles spent every moment not at school in her hospital room, holding her hand and whispering soothing words. He took most of her pain, giving her moments of clarity to be able to converse with her son and husband.

“My _dziecko,_ ” she said to him one night, hand cupping his small face. “You’re my miracle. So special.”

“Mama,” he said, voice choked up.

“Shh, don’t cry, sweetie. Don’t cry.” She combed her fingers through his hair. “I’m happy. So very happy I got to meet you. I got to hold you. The doctors told me it was impossible but I knew you were strong, _kochanie._ ”

Stiles reached into her head, finding nothing but darkness. The complications due to her disease were too severe. She had hours left.

Claudia seemed to know it, too. “You watch after him, _dziecko._ Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

The reaper was sitting patiently in the corner of the room, a pitying look on her face. Stiles wanted to scream at her, demand she take anyone else. But reapers don’t make deals, so Stiles played the part of an innocent human once more, and acted like he couldn’t see her.

_Dad would want to be here._

Stiles reached out with his mind, finding the Deputy responding to an accident on the highway. He left a message in one of the dying victim’s minds, watching as she told John, “If you want to be with her, go now.”

Stiles felt his body fill with frustration as his father ignored the warning, choosing to instead help with the crash. He made the girl say it again. “Go. Now, before it’s too late.”

John shrugged off the demon’s compulsion, made weak because of distance, waving for the firemen to bring the jaws of life.

Stiles gritted his teeth. His mother’s heart rate began to drop. He walked around to silence the machine, knowing it would only cause his mother stress.

“Przemysław,” she whispered. Stiles quickly moved to sit back at her bedside, clasping her hand in his.

“I’m here.” Stiles forced her mind to relax and sleep, to allow her a peaceful passing. He felt he owed it to her after all he did to her and her family.

Two hours later, Stiles felt his mother rouse from her sleep. He attempted to put her back under, but she resisted. “No, don’t, _dziecko._ ” His mother opened his eyes to smile at him. “You are _good_ , Przemysław. Good.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed, “ _Mój mały demon.”_

Stiles froze.

Claudia Stilinski passed away with her son holding her hand in the early hours of the morning. 

It was the first time the demon wept.

* * *

John Stilinski was heartbroken over the loss of his wife. He wasn’t there when she died, and Stiles had to deal with it all alone. John returned to the hospital that morning to find Stiles in the one of the chairs in the hallway, curled into a small ball. The boy was sobbing silently, tears streaming down his face as his tiny body heaved—and John knew. Even before the nurse came over to break the news to him, he knew.

He threw himself into his work, and Stiles nearly lived at Scott’s house for the few months after. Melissa started picking up Stiles from school, making dinner large enough for three, and then dropping Stiles off at home late at night. 

Stiles could smell it on his father, smell the alcohol and misery. Every time Stiles came home from the McCall’s he scent would greet him before he even entered the house. After two months of grieving, Stiles called enough.

Stiles poured every drink out, every bottle of scotch and vodka and can of beer that they had, all went down the drain. John was furious when he found out, shouting at his son. He advanced on Stiles, face red, and lifted his hand to strike his son. 

Stiles stood his ground, lifting his chin defiantly. He thought hard to his father, _’This is not what Claudia would have wanted.’_

John froze. Horrified, he looked at his hand and what he was about to do. Tears sprung to his eyes and the grown man dropped to his knees in front of his child, begging for forgiveness.

Which Stiles did, of course. Their relationship from then on was rocky; without Claudia playing referee, neither father nor son quite knew how to talk to one another. But, Stiles kept his promise to Claudia. He looked after John, making sure the man didn’t drink too much or work himself to death.

It would do for now.

* * *

It was five months after Claudia died when the Hale house caught fire.

Stiles remembered his father coming home that night, smelling of ash and burning wood. His face was grim. He pulled out a glass and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and Stiles let him. He would need it.

There was only one name on his father’s mind. _Hale._

After his father had passed out that night, Stiles snuck out, easily jumping out of his window. He walked through the forest to the Hale house. Even if he didn’t know where it was from looking in his father’s mind, he could have just followed the smell of smoke that permeated the forest.

A twenty minute walk later, Stiles arrived at the Hale mansion. Or what was left of it. Some pieces were still smouldering, most of the house having been crumbled down into charred ruins.

The smell of death was near tangible, especially for his demon senses. He followed the stench to a barred window near the ground, leading into the basement. He breathed in deeply, feeling guilty as he relished in the taste of fear and pain. It had been so long since he was able to feed this side of him.

Stiles paused. The entire land smelled faintly of… dog. He had noticed a change the moment he passed the border onto Hale land, but had thought nothing of it at the time. It was a feeling deeply ingrained in the land, something he had only encountered once before…

Stiles closed his eyes, huffing out a laugh. Werewolves. A pack (well, if there were any of them left alive) here, in Beacon Hills, along with a banshee and a demon. 

Curious, indeed.

* * *

Stiles and Scott were ten when Scott’s father left. Scott had become more and more withdrawn, and Stiles knew it was because of his father. The man reeked of booze and anger, and his drinking had increased recently.

Scott came to school each day with bags under his eyes, and not even Stiles’ usual antics could cheer him up.

Then, one night, Melissa McCall knocked on the Sheriff’s door. It was two in the morning, and she had tears streaming down her face. Stiles didn’t need sleep, of course, so he was awake to hear her old car chugging down the road.

John woke at the knock, stumbling blindly to the door. Stiles crept down the stairs after him, hiding in the shadows. He listened as Melissa confessed, sobbing, that Rafael had finally gone too far. Him and Melissa were fighting, and their yelling had woken Scott up. Scott had gotten between the feud, grabbing his father’s arm to get his attention. Rafael, very drunk, had yanked his arm back, forcing Scott to become off balance. The boy fell backwards down the set of stairs, knocked out momentarily from the tumble down.

Melissa had kicked Rafael out right then and there. She said Scott was okay, that he only got a small cut on his forehead from the railing. As if that made it better.

Stiles, feeling the rage swell inside him for Scott’s drunk of a father. He leapt out the window once more, speeding off to Scott’s home. The lock on Scott’s window was easy enough to pick, and Stiles crouched over Scott’s sleeping form. The boy had cried himself to sleep. 

Stiles frowned. It was extremely irresponsible of Melissa to leave him alone like this. He supposed grief had clouded Melissa’s mind. It took all of Stiles’ will to not go find Rafael and slaughter him. 

He rested two fingertips on Scott’s forehead, avoiding the bandage there, and let his eyes slip closed.

The demon could feel the confusion banging around inside Scott’s innocent mind. He remembered waking to his parents fighting, remembered the tears on his mother’s face. Scott didn’t understand why his father had done what he’d done, why he’d caused his son pain, but Stiles could see plain as day that Scott was afraid of his father.

And that just wouldn’t do.

Stiles, being careful to not let his magic get out of hand, gently removed the memory from Scott’s mind. Melissa would have to come up with her own reason for why Scott’s father left, but Stiles didn’t want his best friend’s main memory of his father to be one of fear and pain.

Scott relaxed in his sleep. He would have a small scar from the cut (unable to heal fully because of Stiles’ tampering), but would otherwise come out of the incident no worse for wear.

Stiles nodded at his work and slipped back out of the window. He took care of his friends.

* * *

With how much John threw himself into his work after Claudia died, it was no surprise that he was soon promoted to Sheriff. The promotion meant taking on more hours, which both Stiles and his father were perfectly happy with. Stiles didn’t have to pretend to eat or sleep (really, these things that were necessities for humans were simply atrocious). Scott was over more often than not, and when he wasn’t over, Stiles was at his house.

They fended their way through middle school, making it out alive. They had no social lives to speak of, but that didn’t matter to either of them. Scott was never bothered with their lack of popularity, and Stiles was more concerned with keeping up an innocent persona about him—no one would suspect that the spastic Stiles was a demon in hiding.

Stiles saved up money from mowing lawns and such to buy a game console—the boy’s summers and weekends were completely taken over by video games. It was as much fun as Scott could have without wheezing from the over exertion.

Stiles maintained a steady observation of the banshee, enabled through his long-lasting ‘crush’. She ignored him most of the time, sticking to her small group of popular friends, but he knew that she was nearly a certifiable genius, even at her young age.

Freshman year was when Scott started showing an interest in lacrosse. Stiles, the ever-so-dutiful friend, followed. The poor boy was adorable with his asthma and inhaler, but he insisted that freshman year they both exercise so they could make the lacrosse team the next year.

They were awful.

Stiles had to keep up his spastic tendencies and flailed more often than he caught a ball, and Scott couldn’t go five minutes without needing a puff. It was embarrassing.

They ended up making the team, however, when they tried out the first week of sophomore year. Stiles was convinced they only got on because Finstock liked to watch them fail. Or he needed targets for his better players. 

Stiles and Scott stayed firmly planted on the bench for the entire first half of the season, but Scott was too happy at being on the team to care that he didn’t play. 

Melissa dutifully came to every one of their games, cheering and making I’m-proud-of-you eyes at her son. The Sheriff tries to come, but always managed to get caught up with work.

They don’t talk about it.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re halfway into their sophomore year when Scott gets bit.

It was Stiles’ fault, really. He had overheard the call on his father’s scanner that there was a body in the woods. It had been so long since something exciting had happened and he just wanted something to _do._

So he went banging on Scott’s door, holding up a pair of flashlights with an impish grin on his face when Scott yelled at him for frightening him. They trudged through the woods, Stiles trying to make it look as if he was wandering aimlessly. The smell of death and decay was pungent in the preserve, leading him like a beacon to its source. The smell was familiar somehow, one he hadn’t scented in a long time but felt as if he still knew it.

They got so close, within yards of the missing half. Stiles greedily breathed in the smell of death. Then the night went to hell and his father caught him. Stiles had enough sense to shove Scott behind a tree so he wasn’t caught as well.

Stiles could sense that something wasn’t quite right with the woods, but he left anyway, trusting that Scott would find his way home. 

The next morning Scott came to him, smelling of pain and blood and… wet dog. Stiles took a peek inside Scott’s mind, rearing back when he saw a newly born wolf awakening.

Well, shit.

It was only fair that Stiles help Scott control his new powers, since it was mainly Stiles’ fault in the first place. He kept Scott from getting himself killed, or killing his mom, or killing the lacrosse team, or killing the hunter girl he was obsessed with—just kept him from _killing_ in general. Maiming, however, was fine. Especially if Scott wanted to have a go at Jackson, then who was Stiles to stop him?

So he was a great best friend and pelted Scott with lacrosse balls until he could calm down without trying to stick his claws deep into Stiles’ stomach and pulling.

And then Stiles met Derek. Derek was like a hit of a drug, what with all his self-loathing and regret. The radiation of misery that he put off was nearly intoxifying. Derek was like his own personal brand of heroin—okay, _no,_ bad Stiles. Sometimes the demon thought that the ADHD act worked as a sort of placebo effect. His mind wandered to horrible places without his control.

Stiles figured out pretty quickly what the guilt was for. Derek wasn’t responsible for the fire, of course; he had only been a teenager caught up in a secret romance with a woman who ended up being a hunter. Talk about drama. But the man’s self-loathing was pungent, nearly edible to Stiles whenever Derek was near.

But Stiles had to pretend as if he didn’t know; just as he had to pretend like he was clueless as to who the Alpha was. Really, it was obvious, but Scott was too caught up in his ‘brunette beauty’ (Scott’s own words), and Derek didn’t want to believe that his comatose uncle was anything other than comatose. Peter was the only family he had left, and Derek willfully ignored all the signs pointing in the older man’s direction. _Sentiment._

Besides, the people Peter were killing were kind of assholes, or at least accessories to the murder of an entire family. The demon side of Stiles really enjoyed the blood that was spilt. He let the man continue. For now.

Kate Argent was a demon. Not like Stiles was a demon, of course, but she was a close second. When she went to hell, Alastair wouldn’t even have to torture her soul, she’d probably just jump at the chance to torture others. What a bitch.

She strolled back into town, cocky and looking to finish off the rest of the Hale line. She didn’t know who the Alpha was—didn’t care, really. She’d put it down along with Derek all the same. Maybe she would sneak into that hospital and take care of the uncle too… She had to admit she was rather disappointed when Chris told her Laura Hale had died. She was looking forward to putting the bitch down herself.

The attack on her vehicle was just a warm up. She shot one of the little bastards, now all she had to do was wait. Chris would come around to see her side eventually.

Stiles was genuinely surprised when Derek staggered in front of his Jeep outside the school. The man reeked of pain with a hint of fear, but collapsed to the ground before Stiles could ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.

Scott was suddenly there, herding Derek into Stiles’ car. Derek told Scott that he had to find the bullet Kate used and bring it to Derek or he would die. Scott—poor, puppy Scott—blinked and then nodded happily when he realized he needed to go to Allison’s house to do as Derek asked.

Stiles put Roscoe in drive and started the drive to the old Hale house. He eyed Derek warily.  
“Hey, try not to bleed out on my seats, okay? We're almost there.” 

Derek flashes his eyes at him, a look of worry crossing his features. “Almost where?”

“Your house.” He only just barely resisted from adding _dumbass._

“What? No, you can't take me there.”

Stiles voice sounded flat event to his own ears, “I can't take you to your own house?”

Derek shook his head. “Not when I can't protect myself.”

“Alright,” Stiles huffed, swiftly pulling over. “What happens if Scott doesn't find your little magic bullet? Hmm?” Derek let out a painful groan. Stiles grimaced. “Are you dying?” He did not want that shit to happen in Roscoe, okay?

“Not yet. I have a last resort.”

“What do you mean? What last resort?” Derek responded by lifting up his sleeve. Black goop oozed from the wound, enough to make any normal person lose their lunch. Stiles pretended to gag, scrunching up his face in disgust. “What is that?” Derek tested the movement of his arm, nearly getting the black shit on his seat. “Ugh, is that contagious?”

Derek gave him a bitchface. The man seemed to be good at those.

“You know what, you should probably just get out.” Stiles shook his head, unlocking the door. He did not need this today.

“Start the car. Now.”

Geez, pushy much?

Stiles glared at the older man. “I don't think you should be barking orders with the way you look, okay? In fact, I think if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead.” Stiles felt as if he was overplaying his role as the spastic teen, but Derek took it in stride.

There was a beat of silence, before Derek gritted out, “Start the car, or I'm gonna rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

Stiles blinked at him, then nodded. “Starting the car,” he mumbled under his breath at he reached for the ignition. “Got it.”

After about about thirty minutes of driving aimlessly (because he was not bringing a wanted criminal to his house, no thank you) Stiles gave up and called Scott. “What am I supposed to do with him?” he hissed into the phone. Derek looked nearly completely out of it by now.

Scott whispered back, “Take him somewhere, anywhere.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ve been driving him around for the last half-hour. Gas is not cheap. And, by the way, he's starting to smell.”

“Like what?”

“Like death.”

Scott let out a worried breath. “Okay, take him to the animal clinic.”

“What about your boss?” Stiles did not want to have to interact with the druid if he didn’t have to.

“He’s gone by now. There's a spare key in the box behind the dumpster. I’ll meet you there as soon as I get the bullet.” With that, he hung up.

Stiles eyed the nearly passed out werewolf next to him. “You're not gonna believe where he's telling me to take you. There are so many dog jokes I could be making right now. But you’re not awake enough to enjoy them, so I’ll save it for later.”

The demon sped all the way to the clinic, and half-carried Derek inside. Black lines were sprouting up and down his arm, and Derek’s face was ashen.

Stiles shrugged a bit. He had to continue talking to keep Derek awake. A sleeping injured werewolf was as good as dead, or however the saying went. “Okay. You know, that really doesn't look like anything some echinacea and a good night of sleep couldn't take care of.”

“When the infection reaches my heart, it'll kill me.”

“‘Positivity’ just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?”

Derek seemed to sag on the operating table, panting slightly. “If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time—last resort.”

“Which is?”

Derek eyed the hand saw lying in Deaton’s cabinet. “You're gonna cut off my arm."

Stiles put on a horrified look—which wasn’t even faking that much. No, thank you. “What if you bleed to death?”

“It'll heal if it works.”

“Ugh. Look—I don't know if I can do this.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!” His control was already running thin with the delicious taste of pain and agony Derek was giving off.

“You faint at the sight of blood?”

“No, but I might at the sight of a chopped-off arm!”

Derek’s eye twitched. “All right, fine. How about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head.”

Stiles didn’t even try to resist rolling his eyes. “Okay, you know what, I'm so not buying your threats anym—” In a surge of strength, Derek had a fist in Stiles’ shirt. “Okay! All right, bought, sold. Totally. I'll do it. I'll do it.” Stiles nodded emphatically, and Derek dropped his hand. 

Then the werewolf was taking off his shirt and tying a tourniquet above the wound. 

“What the hell is that?” Stiles said, eyes the black goop.

“It's my body trying to heal itself.”

“Well, it's not doing a very good job of it.” Stiles snarked.

Derek gritted his teeth against a wave of pain. “Now. You gotta do it now.”

“Look, honestly, I don't think I can.”

“Just do it!” Derek growled, eyes flashing.

“Okay, okay.” Stiles picked up the saw, testing the weight of it. This was all reminding him of his time in hell. Except now he was being begged to continue, not stop. “All right, here we go!” He set it against Derek’s arm, trying to decide if he really wanted to do this.

Scott’s voice echoing through the clinic had them both letting out a sigh of relief. “Stiles! What are you doing?” 

Stiles dropped the blade and patted his friend on the back thankfully. “Oh, you just prevented a lifetime of nightmares.”

Derek didn’t seem impressed. “Did you get it?”

Scott nodded, and fished the bullet out of his pocket. Derek reached for it, but fainted instead. He hit the floor, hard. 

Stiles ignored Scott’s chanting of, “No, no, no, no—” and tried to figure out what Derek meant to do with the bullet. He was adamant about it having to be the same kind... 

_Oh!_

He popped the bullet open and spread the wolfbane on the floor next to Derek’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked. “Do you know how to fix Derek?”

“I read it in a book once,” Stiles said, which wasn’t actually a lie. He fished a lighter out from Derek’s pocket and set the powder on fire. Stiles grimaced. “Sorry about this, buddy.” He shoved Derek’s arm into the powder, causing the older man to let out a literal howl of pain.

The blackness of the wound receded, and Derek’s healing finally could kick in. Stiles estimated the wound would be fully healed within the hour.

“Well,” Stiles clapped his hands, grinning at Scott (who had a confused but triumphant look on his face). “I think my work here is done.”

Scott, grinning back, nodded along. They both looked down at Derek, who seemed to finally be coming back to himself. “I’ll make sure he gets home.”

Stiles should get a medal for dealing with all this shit.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles knew that Kate had kidnapped Derek; knew exactly where she was keeping him. Stiles was planning on going to release him after the stupid dance (making up some stupid excuse about stumbling upon Derek) when Peter Hale came in and sort of fucked everything up.

The dance was everything Stiles expected it to be; sweaty, tipsy teens standing close to one another and awkwardly swaying from side to side. It was awful. But Jackson had taken Allison to the dance per Scott’s request and because Allison was at the dance, Scott was at the dance. And Scott was at the dance, which meant Stiles was at the dance. Two peas in a pod. Brother from another mother. Or, as Jackson would say, _testicle left and right._

Stiles sat on the sidelines of the dance floor with Lydia, watching her sulk about Jackson. Jackson, the douche, brought Allison over to dance right in front of them. Allison looked uncomfortable, while Lydia pointedly ignored them.

Stiles glanced over at Lydia. She really did look beautiful, her white dress reflecting the colorful lights in the gym. Her hair was perfectly curled and she made sure to wear the shade of lipstick Jackson loved to kiss off her. Biting his lip, Stiles eyed where Jackson and Allison danced just a few feet away. Jackson pulled Allison a bit too close for anyone’s comfort, his hand sliding lower to rest just on the small of her back. Next to him, Lydia’s heart stuttered painfully.

“You wanna dance?” he asked her, blurting the question out. It seemed like the polite thing to do. It had been a few centuries since he had actually danced, but he thought he remembered how.

She simply stared at him, unimpressed. “Pass.”

But he could feel the turmoil in her head, jealousy and anger with a touch of self-deprecation for feeling anything at all. “You know what? Let me try that again. Lydia—get off your cute little ass and dance with me, now.”

She raised a brow at him, but made no move to stand. “Interesting tactic. I'm gonna stick with no.” Her eyes betrayed her, flickering to where Jackson and Allison were getting cozy on the dance floor.

“Lydia, just get up—okay? You're gonna dance with me.” She still didn’t look convinced. ”Lydia, I've had a crush on you since the third grade.” A lie, but flattery seemed to work on most people. “And I know that somewhere inside that cold, lifeless exterior there's an actual human soul. And I'm also pretty sure that I'm the only one who knows how smart you really are.” 

At her raised brow of surprise, he nodded. “Uh-huh. And that once you're done pretending to be a nitwit—you'll eventually go off and write some insane mathematical theorem that wins you the Nobel Prize.”

Lydia simply stared at him, stunned. Finally, she cleared her throat. “A Fields Medal.”

“What?”

Lydia stood, a small smile gracing her lips. “Nobel doesn't have a prize for mathematics. The Fields Medal is the one I'll be winning.” With that, she grabbed his hand and led him onto the dance floor.

Stiles was a perfect gentleman. He knew Lydia wasn’t interested in him like that (even though they would be _fabulous_ together) so he kept his hands above the waist and made sure there was a middle-school-dance appropriate sized distance between them. Lydia passed it off as his nervousness at dancing with her. She found it endearing. 

It did the trick, anyhow. Jackson’s rage was nearly palpable, and he could only handle ten minutes of Stiles and Lydia smiling and dancing before he was storming out of the gym. Stiles knew he was off to the restroom to sneak in more vodka.

Lydia noticed his absence immediately, her smile dropping from her face. She bit her lip, the scent of guilt wafting off of her. For once, the smell did nothing to feed the demon.

He caught her eye. “You okay?”

“Just—” she cleared her throat, eyes shining. “I just need to take a little break.”

“You mean you need to go find Jackson,” he corrected. She opened her mouth to dispute it, guilt intensifying, but Stiles cut her off with a small smile. “I get it. Don’t worry.”

She sniffed, smiling, and leaned in to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “You’re alright, Stiles.”

“High praise,” he teased. She smirked and walked off in the direction Jackson slunk off to. Stiles was distracted for a moment watching Scott think on the fly, grinning as his best friend wrapped his arms around Danny and demanded he dance with him.

Finstock babbled on, horrified at his blunder, and Stiles couldn’t help but snigger as Coach muttered to himself as he walked away. Scott was immediately on Allison, grinning his puppy-dog smile at her. They danced for a few minutes, all tiny grins and stolen glances. 

The smell of booze hit Stiles like a truck. He glanced over to see Jackson stumbling toward him. He grimaced at the smell. “Where the hell have you been?” he snapped. “Did Lydia ever find you?”

The blond seemed confused. “Lydia?”

Stiles raised a brow, “Yeah. She left, like, ten minutes ago to go after you.”

Jackson’s face only became more confused.

Shit. If Lydia wasn’t with Jackson… Stiles spread his consciousness out, searching for the unique aura of banshee. He found her on the lacrosse field, mind dazed. But there was another aura on the field, on dark and cold and…

“Lydia!” Stiles pushed past Jackson, the man too drunk to react, and ran out the gym doors and toward the field. He could see the redhead near the middle of the field; on the sidelines closest to the woods, Peter stalked toward her.

“Lydia!” Stiles called. “Run!” She couldn't hear him, her mind in a fog.

In a flash, Peter had grabbed Lydia by the throat and threw her to the ground, claws digging into her sensitive neck. Blood stained her white dress.

Stiles sprinted, reaching Lydia just as the older man looked up to smirk. Stiles felt rage pump through him, and he had to fight the growl that wanted to leave him.

Instead, he begged, “Don't kill her. Please.”

Peter gave him a _‘who, me?’_ look. “Of course not.” Before Stiles could be relieved, Peter grinned wolfishly at him. “Just tell me how to find Derek.”

“W-what?” Stiles stuttered, heart racing with adrenaline. Lydia seemed in a daze. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because of her Bansheeness or if she was in shock.

Peter looked at him like he was thick. He spoke more slowly, “Tell me how to find Derek Hale.”

Shit. “I don't know that,” he lied. “How would I know that?”

“Because you're the clever one, aren't you?” He looked almost impressed. “And because deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles.” Peter’s claws flexed where they rested on Lydia’s neck. “Tell me the truth—or I will rip her apart.”

Stiles flailed a bit, eyeing nervously where the razor-sharp claws rested against Lydia’s delicate human skin. “Okay, okay, look. I—I think he knew—”

Peter’s smile turned a bit more feral, and a single claw dug in, causing a drop of blood to well up. “Knew what?”

“Derek, I think he—I think he knew he was going to be caught.”

“By the Argents?” Peter’s head cocked. 

Stiles nodded, thinking frantically for an excuse as to how he could know where Derek was without giving himself away. He licked his lips nervously, a plan coming to mind.

Peter caught the look. “And,” he prompted.

“When they were shot, he and Scott—I think he took Scott's phone.”

“Why?”

Jeez, how out of touch was this guy? Years in a coma will do that to you, Stiles guess. “They all have GPS now. So, if he still has it and if it's still on—you can find him.”

Peter’s hand moved away from Lydia’s neck. “Good boy.”

Lydia’s heart stuttered painfully, and her eyes slipped closed into a faint. “Just let me get her to a hospital. Please.”

“Sorry, Stiles. Time’s up.”

“No—,” Stiles knew young love could make a human do stupid things, and pretended to get a burst of courage at the danger of Lydia. “I'm not just letting you leave her here.”

Peter didn’t seem impressed. “You don't have a choice, Stiles. You're coming with me.”

They both heard it when Lydia’s heart lurched and slowed, shock making her blood pressure plummet dangerously. “Just kill me. Look, I don't care anymore.” _Just not her._ Lydia was too important to die.

Peter sighed as if Stiles was causing him a great burden. “Call your friend,” he finally allowed. “Tell Jackson where she is. That's all you get.”

And then, because Peter was an asshole, he picked up Lydia’s hand and sunk his Alpha teeth into the soft flesh of her wrist. “No!” Stiles shouted, unsure how her Banshee nature would react to the Bite.

Peter grabbed Stiles around the waist, hauling him off the field. “Better call soon, Stiles. Poor Lydia doesn’t have much time.”

Peter fished Stiles’ keys out of his pocket, shaking him a little when Stiles protested. “You’re lucky your vehicle doesn’t have a trunk,” he threatened, and Stiles honestly wasn’t sure if he was serious or not.

A frantic phone call and an awkward five minute drive followed, then Peter was corralling him into a parking garage.

Peter lugged a dinosaur of a computer out of his trunk, sliding it out from under the dead body of this former nurse. Well, that answered that.

Really, it was just embarrassing that Scott’s password was Allison. Stiles would tease him about it if it didn’t make it so easy for Stiles for get into all of his stuff. 

When Peter offered Stiles the bite it took everything in the demon not to laugh. He wondered how quickly the werewolf magic would be purged from his veins if he let the demon magic run its course. 

Peter, for all his crazy, was actually pretty cool. His cynical snark mirrored Stiles’ own. It was a shame the dog would have to be put down.

So Peter went on with his crazy scheme after Stiles refused the bite, and even went so far as to crush Stiles’ keys just to be a dick.

Stiles walked to the hospital to check on Lydia, and ran into his best friend’s girlfriend’s father, who looked really freaking pissed. Chris Argent and two other hunters corralled him into an empty cleaning supplies room, and Chris slammed him up against the wall.

Um, _ouch_ , thank you. 

It wasn't until after a little posturing and threatening that Stiles realized Chris had no idea about the fire.

Chris glared at him. “Did Scott try to kill you on the full moon?” he asked. “Did you have to lock him up?”

Stiles snorted at the man’s attempt to frighten him. “Yeah, I did. I had to handcuff him to a radiator.” Stiles leveled Chris with a look. “Why? Would you prefer I locked him in the basement and burned the whole house down around him?”

Chris smiled at Stiles patronizingly. “I hate to dispel a popular rumor, Stiles, but we never did that.”

Stiles was surprised to see that the man was telling the truth. He really had no idea what Kate did. “Oh, right,” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Derek said you guys had a code. I guess no one ever breaks it.”

Chris looked shifty, but still said, “Never.”

“What if someone does?”

The hunter froze. He eyed Stiles warily, slowly letting the boy sink back to the ground. The other hunters in the room seemed uncomfortable as well. “Someone like who?”

“Your sister.”

It was sort of beautiful, watching the man’s mind piece together all the clues. He looked devastated. Stiles couldn’t resist rubbing salt in the wound. “You’ve suspected for a while now, haven’t you? But you wouldn’t do anything.”

“She’s my _sister,_ ” the man’s voice broke.

“She is a murderer. She’s just as bad as the Alpha you’ve been hunting.” Chris stepped back, waving off the other hunters who were eyeing him warily.

Stiles continued, “I’ll let you take care of Kate if you let me take care of the Alpha.” He grabbed a bottle of cleaner and a rag from the shelf next to him. “All I need now is a ride.”

* * *

Chris drove him to the old Hale house, the two of them nearly flinging themselves out of the car when they saw Kate aiming her gun at Scott. Derek was laying on the forest floor, limp and in a pool of his own blood.

“Kate!” Chris screamed, running toward her. He took his gun out of its holster, aiming at his sister. “I know what you did. Put the gun down.”

Kate shifted the gun in her grip, looking at Chris coldly. “I did what I was told to do.”

Chris shook his head. “No one asked you to murder innocent people. There were _children_ in that house, ones who were _human._ Look what you're doing now.” Both he and Stiles crept forward to stand between Kate and Scott. Stiles could hear Derek’s heart slowly beating, becoming more steady as his body healed itself. So, not dead, then.

“You're holding a gun at a 16-year-old boy with no proof he spilled human blood.” Chris tried to reason with her, but Stiles could see she was too far gone. “We go by the code— _nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”_

At Scott’s puppy-eyed confused look, Allison clarified, “We hunt those who hunt us.”

Chris nodded, proud of his daughter. “Put the gun down. Before I put you down.”

Kate actually started to lower her arm, before Peter came roaring out of the house and fucked everything up again. Kate’s throat was slashed and now Derek and Scott were trying to get Peter to not attack Allison. Chris lied knocked out on the ground, Allison trying to rouse him.

Jeez. What a soap opera.

Stiles picked up the molotov cocktail, cursing slightly when he realised his lighter must have fallen out of his pocket. He took a quick glance around, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. With a quick thought the rag was lit, and the entire bottle was sailing through the air. It hit Peter square in the chest, engulfing the man in flames.

Derek’s there when Peter eventually puts himself out, ready to end his uncle. Scott tried to get Derek to let him do it—still convinced that the bite was a curse. Derek never had any plans to let Scott kill Peter, and quickly slashed a clawed hand across this uncle’s throat.

And just like that, it was over. Stiles could feel the Alpha power rush from Peter to Derek, strengthening the younger man immediately. Derek, ever the drama queen, turned to his onlookers and flashed his eyes. “I’m the Alpha now.”

It was all Stiles could do not to snort.

* * *

Stiles returned to the Hale house later, in the early hours of the morning. They had left Kate’s body there for the police to find, but had buried Peter’s under the floorboards in the living room.

He made sure the police wouldn’t be able to pick up any of their fingerprints, and then stopped to gaze hungrily at Kate’s body. Carotid artery deaths were always messy, as shown by the pool of blood surrounding her.

Ever so slowly, he crept toward her. No one would know if he just… _indulged_ a little.

Stiles paused, frowning puzzledly at Kate. The wounds on her neck seemed to be… knitting themselves closed. His eyes widened. He had heard rumors that the scratch of a werewolf could be enough to transform someone, but they would have to be so deep—like a killing blow.

Oh shit.

Kate was turning, and Stiles couldn’t tell anyone because he wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. Kate’s heart gave a jolt, as if awakening from a nap.

_Well now,_ Stiles thought to himself, _we can’t have that, can we?_

He stepped toward her, and her eyes flew open, flashing a bright green at him. He smiled at her, all teeth. “Nice trick,” he said. “But I can do that, too.” When he blinked, his eyes were entirely black, looking straight into Kate’s with a grin on his face.

Kate only had time to widen her eyes in surprise before Stiles was grabbing her head and twisting. There was a sharp crack, and Kate’s second life was over.

* * *

The Sheriff found her body the next day due to an anonymous tip. She had the pendant around her neck, still intact though her neck was not.

The man huffed out a sigh. Case closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit rough. not beta'd.

There was barely a period of rest. 

Stiles could sense the banshee in Lydia awakening, spurred on by Peter’s attack. She'd heal from her wounds and eventually learn to control her powers. Stiles wondered if he could help her learn. He did have a lot of experience with dead souls, after all. 

The banshee was now running about the woods, the voices in her head overwhelming. Stiles knew he couldn’t intervene; this was a delicate time in a banshee’s mind, determining whether the dead were stronger than the living.

Kate’s funeral was a riot. It took place after the papers ran the truth of how she set the fire, so there were reporters everywhere. Stiles’ dad had to set up a police escort for Allison’s family, and lent security so the family could bury Kate in peace.

And then Gerard showed up.

Scott and Stiles watched the funeral from afar, both knowing that they weren’t welcome. Scott was still in the doghouse with Allison for not telling her about the whole werewolf thing, and Scott sure as hell wasn’t liked by her parents.

Scott saw Gerard first, an old man in a suit strolling up to the funeral like he didn’t have a care in the world. He greeted Chris and Victoria warmly, and leered down at Allison.

Stiles could sense the darkness radiating off this man, could tell that there was barely a soul left in him. He was Kate and Chris’ father, and it looked as if Chris and Allison were the only ones that got a grain of sense in the family. Even Victoria was letting hatred and revenge cloud her judgement. There wasn’t a code now.

Derek, with his new Alpha status, was attempting to build a pack. He picked those who were lonely and scared, like Isaac Lahey. 

Isaac was painfully shy. He was quiet at school, struggling to get the grades his father wanted him to. Stiles could smell the bruises, the blood pooled under Isaac’s light skin. Nothing Isaac ever did was good enough for his father, who was always comparing Isaac to his dead brother. Once Isaac learned of the power that came with becoming a werewolf, he accepted immediately. He thought of finally being able to defend himself, of finally not being weak. 

Erica was a timid girl, her epilepsy ostracizing her from the rest of the class. Stiles remembered one time he crushed to phone of a guy who thought it would be funny to film one of her seizures. Her epilepsy had made her quiet, but there was a firecracker in her personality waiting to be unleashed. Fangs and claws would suit her well. 

Along with Erica joined Boyd, a loner who was simply too introverted to make friends. Boyd had had a crush on Erica for years, and when she showed up alongside Derek to offer him a place in their pack, he couldn’t accept quickly enough. Boyd was always hanging on the sidelines, never in the spotlight. His family was estranged and rocky, and he wanted the closeness that came with having a pack.

Derek was shaky with his new pack. They were wary of him, of his hard rules and lack of communication. Derek was a born wolf, not a bitten one, and every time the teens acted out against him, it rubbed his wolf the wrong way. A pack was supposed to treat their Alpha with respect, not with snark.

He trained them, using the methods his mother had used on him. He tried to show them how to find their anchor, their way to stay human during the pull of the full moon. Isaac got it quickly, and helped Derek contain a feral Boyd and Erica. By the end of the night, Erica and Boyd had found an anchor in each other, holding the other close while Derek and Isaac panted and licked their wounds.

And then Isaac’s father died. His car door had been ripped clean off, and his blood was spread over an entire alley. It seemed like something Stiles would do, but he couldn’t take credit for it. He saw his father’s files on the murder spread over the kitchen table, and took a peak while the man was getting himself a beer.

Stiles visited the crime scene, seeing if he could sniff out whoever committed the crime. But it was raining the night of the murder, and most of the evidence had been washed away.

Stiles could also smell the change in Jackson. The boy smelled like he was newly turned, but… _different,_ somehow. He certainly wasn’t in Derek’s pack. Also, the fact that Derek gave in and actually bit Jackson counted against Derek’s street cred in Stiles’ eyes. No one should give in to the whiny rich asshole that is Jackson.

They figured out that it was a kanima killing people, thanks to Deaton’s cryptic help. Stiles found himself amused by the little emissary. The man acted as if he knew all, but there was so much that he hadn't seen. He couldn't even recognize Stiles for what he really was. For a druid, he was a low level one.

Deaton had a line of salt in his office, creating a barrier right along side the one made of mountain ash. Stiles stayed carefully on the outside of the salt, not wanting to tip the man off. Deaton may have been a bit full of himself, but he wasn't a complete idiot. He’d have to wait for one of the others to accidently break it.

Stiles got a close up look at the creature when it paralyzed him at the mechanic’s. He could feel the venom shutting down his weak human body, and quickly used the demon magic to burn it out of his system. Snarling in anger, Stiles got to his feet, ready to kill whoever drugged him, when he saw a lizard creature use his tail to slice at the back of the mechanic’s neck. The kanima then lowered Stiles’ car on the paralyzed man, crushing him while Stiles looked on; half impressed. Then he realized his mother’s old Jeep was now part of a murder investigation.

Shit, his father was not going to be happy about this.

Scott and Derek were on a rocky relationship, too. They understood that they needed to work together to catch the kanima, but were clashing heads on how to do it. Stiles would side with Scott, would always side with Scott, but even he had to admit that both Scott and Derek had their heads in their asses.

And then Derek had to go fall in a stupid pool.

Stiles and Derek never really got along. Derek was too controlling, and Stiles couldn’t keep from insulting the man’s poor Alpha skills. Stiles was just sort of the friend that tagged along wherever Scott went, the one that no one really wanted but was sort of stuck with.

So, Derek was kind of a dick to Stiles, and Stiles returned the favor whenever he could. But then the kanima came to attack Derek, Stiles, and Erica (the last of the three was the one that actually dragged Stiles to Derek). Erica completely bailed, leaving Derek and Stiles up against the kanima.

Derek pushed Stiles away and told him to run like the self-sacrificing asshole he is, turning his back to the kanima. Its tail slashed out, and suddenly Derek was staggering, a small cut on the back of his neck. Unable to control himself, Derek went careening into the pool, paralyzed and quickly sinking.

Stiles looked at the kanima, who cocked its head back at him, before Stiles went diving into the pool after Derek. The dude was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to die.

He yanked Derek’s shirt, pulling the man back to the the surface and holding him afloat. They eyed the kanima warily, but the thing seemed to be afraid of the water. 

They stayed like that for nearly an hour, the kanima angrily circling the water and screeching at them. Stiles tried making small talk, to ease the tension in the room (pool), but Derek apparently wasn’t in the mood. It was easy enough to keep them both above water, even with how bulky Derek was, but Stiles knew that Derek would expect him to get tired eventually. He had no idea how long it would take for the venom to wear off of a werewolf, but it was probably longer than a normal human could keep two people floating. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He could see his phone sitting on the edge of the pool, right where he dropped it. _Maybe if he could call Scott…_

Derek, apparently, could read his mind. “No, no, no. Don’t even think about it.”

“Would you just trust me this once?” Stiles growled. This loner tough guy act was getting old quickly. Derek had a pack now. Wasn’t he supposed to grow as a person or some bullshit?

“No,” the older man snarled.

Stiles groaned. “I'm the one keeping you alive, okay, have you noticed that?”

Derek glared. “Yeah. And when the paralysis wears off, who is gonna be able to fight that thing, you or me?” Stiles gave him his best bitchface. “You don't trust me and I don't trust you. You need me to survive, which is why you are not letting me go.” 

Well, screw that. _Take a deep breath, buddy._

“Sti—!” Derek shouted as Stiles let go of him, the older man rapidly sinking as Stiles made a break for his phone. He got to it just before the kanima did, splashing water at the thing to get it to back off.

He dialed Scott, mumbling _pick up, pick up, pick up,_ under his breath. Scott picked up, and Stiles shouted, “Scott!”

But Scott, the great friend that he was, only said, “I can’t talk right now,” and hung up.

Stiles stared at his phone in disbelief, throwing it in the water angrily. Bubbles rose to the surface a few feet from him. He stared at them for a second before remembering— _shit, Derek._

He dove back underwater, pulling the man back up. Derek gasped for air, coughing up water while Stiles pretended he didn’t notice.

Derek eyed him warily, “Tell me you got him.”

Stiles avoided eye contact, and Derek huffed out a breath. “Great,” he snarked.

They stayed like that, trapped, for over an hour longer, Stiles pumping his legs steadily to keep them above water. The clock on the wall said that they had been floating for over two hours when Stiles and Derek heard a deafening roar.

“Scott,” Stiles said, relieved.

And Scott came in to save the day, chasing away the kanima—who Stiles could tell now reeked of Jackson. Crap.

He noticed Derek eyeing him suspiciously, and purposefully made his stature look worn out, realizing that a human would probably be exhausted by now.

Derek seemed satisfied, and left them so he could wrangle back up his betas.

Crisis averted. For now.

* * *

Stiles could sense the darkness in the Lydia’s mind. The Banshee was speaking to the dead, playing with fire. Poor thing didn’t even know she was doing it, thinking that the young-looking Peter Hale _liked_ her.

Stiles would just let that one play itself out. Any dead strong enough to play with the living clearly deserved to come back.

Stiles continued to keep his head down, going along with Scott’s ridiculous plans and letting things run their course. The kanima continued to wreak havoc, and Scott and Derek didn’t have a clue on how to stop it.

They ended up looking through Gerard’s bestiary, which was mostly written in Archaic Latin. Stiles took one look at the page and it was as clear as if he was reading English, but of course he couldn’t tell Scott that.

Deaton still didn't suspect anything, going so far as to say there was a ‘spark’ in Stiles that would allow him to manipulate the mountain ash to his will. Stiles wondered what was wrong with this town, to have such a large supernatural attraction.

The whole kidnapping Jackson thing went to shit. He nearly got his dad fired and Jackson escaped and continued to kill people because Scott couldn’t resist feeling up his girlfriend.

Then was Lydia’s party. Stiles, in his normal fashion, went all out with gifts for Lydia, giving her the largest box he could find and filling it to the brim.

There was wolfsbane in the punch to distract everyone while Lydia snuck away to raise Peter from the dead. Stiles unashamedly thrived on the panic and pain that came from the hallucinations that night from everyone that drank Lydia’s punch.

They found out Matt was the one controlling Jackson (which was obvious from the start if anyone was paying attention), but he and the kanima disappeared before Scott could confront them.

Lydia’s party night ended with one psychopath being resurrected and another dying. Stiles knew the moment Allison got the call to meet her father at the hospital; could see from the devastation on her face when she heard the news about her mother. He knew she would blame Derek. He also knew Scott wouldn’t tell Allison about how Victoria nearly killed him the night she was bitten, wanting to keep her image of her mother an untarnished one.

Scott and Stiles rushed home to tell the Sheriff about Matt, and at nearly two in the morning the three made their way to the police station.

Stiles could sense the danger the moment they stepped into the building, but it was too late. All of the deputies on duty were dead and Matt was holding a gun to his head. Douche.

His father was still here, however, still in danger, and that was his number one priority. Matt made him cuff the Sheriff to the bench near the cells, and Stiles did his best to lead Matt away from his father.

They were made to destroy all of the evidence they had against Matt. The boy was clearly panicking, thinking up what to do next as he went along.

A car pulled into the station and everyone froze. Matt finally gestured for Scott to open the door. Scott threw it open, expecting to see his mother, but found Derek instead.

“Oh, thank God,” Scott said, but Stiles could smell the kanima venom already surging through the werewolf’s veins.

Derek keeled over, falling flat on his face. He looked so put out and grumpy on the floor, glaring up at them all. His eyes roamed over Matt. “This is the one controlling him? This kid?”

Matt glared down at the werewolf. “Well, Derek, not everyone's lucky enough to be a big, bad werewolf.” At Derek’s look of surprise, Matt gloated. “Oh, yeah, that's—that's right. I've learned a few things lately. Werewolves, hunters, kanimas. It's like a frickin' Halloween party every full moon.” He suddenly turned the gun on Stiles. “Except for you, Stiles. What do you turn into?”

Stiles wished he could show Matt the truth, just to watch him crap his pants. Instead, he snarked, “Abominable snowman. But, uh, it's more of, like, a wintertime thing, you know, seasonal.” He could hear the swish of the kanima’s tail, and felt it slice across the back of his neck, the venom entering his body quickly.

Stiles was already falling, unable to push the venom out due to his onlookers. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, landing face first on top of Derek.

Which, _hello, abs._

Derek grumbled, “Get him off of me.” 

Rude.

“Oh, I don't know, Derek. I think you two make a pretty good pair.” Matt said, smiling down at them patronizingly. “It must kinda suck, though, to have all that power taken away from you with just a little cut to the back of the neck. I bet you're not used to feeling this helpless.”

Derek curled his lips. “Still got some teeth. Why don't you get down here a little closer, huh? We'll see how helpless I am.”

Stiles, face still smushed against Derek’s shoulder, mumbled, “Yeah, bitch.”

The sound of another car pulling up interrupted Matt’s comeback. The boy grinned at Scott. “Is that her? Do what I tell you to and I won't hurt her. I won't even let Jackson near her.”

Stiles could feel the war raging in Scott’s head, his overwhelming need to save everyone conflicting with his need for justice. He could also see that Matt had every intention of killing every single person in the building. “Scott, don't trust him!”

Stiles was rolled over onto his back, only for Matt’s boot to come crashing down on his windpipe.

He struggled to take in a breath, making a show of his face turning purple for his onlookers, and Matt smiled. “This work better for you?”

Scott yelled for Matt to stop and he finally let up. Stiles dramatically gulped in deep breaths of air, coughing and sputtering. 

And then Scott was going with Matt, and the idiot ended up getting himself shot, and the night really only went downhill from there. Matt was turning into a kanima, the real kanima was trying to kill Allison, Allison was trying to kill Derek, Derek found out Scott was betraying him, and _still_ no one killed Gerard. Melissa found out about werewolves while Stiles’ dad stayed blissfully unaware.

Peter was lurking in the shadows, watching the police station from afar. He saw Matt make his escape, and Gerard follow soon after. 

Gerard cornered Matt, drowning him in the stream. The teen struggled for a while, but eventually the poor boy's lungs gave out. The kanima approached Gerard, seeking a new master, and Gerard seized the opportunity. The old man lifted his hand and bonded with Jackson, all while Peter looked on.

Peter sighed. He spent all this trouble coming back to life and was greeted with this clusterfuck. 

It must be his lucky day.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles’ father was reinstated as sheriff due to his heroics at the station that night, which Stiles was grateful for. The Sheriff also made him see the school’s guidance counselor—even though he assured his father he’s _fine._ The Morrell druid eyed him suspiciously, but in the end was just as clueless as her brother.

Erica and Boyd, who Stiles had become closer with since they were turned, went missing. Scott said that they were out on patrol last night, and never returned. Derek was afraid they left him, that they went to join another pack, but Stiles knew that they practically idolized Derek and wouldn’t leave.

The championship game of lacrosse was tonight, and both Stiles and Scott knew that Gerard was planning something big. Jackson was trapped inside his own mind, his will being pushed aside for the sake of Gerard’s. Stiles tapped into that misery and fed every time he saw Jackson in the hall. He called it payback for all the years Jackson fed his ego from causing Stiles misery.

His father had the night off, and came to Stiles’ game on a whim. Stiles was hesitant to let him come, knowing Gerard was planning something, but it would seem even more suspicious if Stiles told his father _not_ to come.

So Stiles prepared himself for a night of sitting on the bench—along with Scott, who was benched because he was failing three classes. And Stiles was doing just that when Coach jumped up behind and told Stiles to get on the field.

“What?” Stiles asked. He’d never taken his ass off that bench during a game. “What happened to Greenberg?”

“What happened to Greenberg?” Coach repeated. “He sucks. You suck slightly less.”

Stiles was baffled. Why now? “I'm playing? On the field? With the team?”

Coach’s eye twitched. “Yes, unless you'd rather play with yourself.”

Stiles’ lack of filter got ahead of him. “I already did that today,” he said distractedly, “twice.” What? There were perks to having an actual body.

Coach looked about half a second away from maiming him. “Get the hell out there!” He shoved hard at Stiles’ back, sending him stumbling onto the field.

He could hear his father’s surprise at him being on the field, and Melissa and Lydia’s hesitant happiness for him.

When the game started, Stiles played terribly. With the eyes of Gerard on him, he knew he couldn’t let anything slip. It was only when his father and Lydia shouted at him from the bleachers to ‘shoot the damn ball’ that he finally chucked the ball into the net.

He turned, seeing the look of pure joy on his father’s face, and felt himself smile. His father hadn’t looked that happy since his mother died. Stiles made a silent vow to spend the rest of the game making sure that look never left his father’s face.

He let Scott save Isaac, kept Gerard in sight, and continued to score goals. After every one he looked to the stands and the Sheriff was beaming at him.

Then, in the last thirty seconds of the game, Gerard made true on his promise. He forced Jackson to dig his claws across his own stomach, spilling his guts all over the field.

In the panic on the field and in the bleachers, Stiles didn’t notice Gerard making his way toward him until it was too late. Gerard had a knife pressed between his ribs and was whispering in his ear, “Well, now, Stiles. It seems I’ll just have to improvise. You can thank Scott for this.” Gerard yanked on Stiles cropped hair and began dragging him to his car.

Annoyed, Stiles pondered smiting the little bastard, but there were too many of Gerard’s lackeys around as witnesses. And the less demon power he could use the better—too much would tip other supernaturals off to his location. 

So he let himself be dragged, and was flung into the back of a black SUV. He complained and bitched like Stiles would, all while having a gun pointed right between his eyes.

Stiles was only slightly surprised when they arrived at the Argent house. “Take him to the basement,” Gerard told one of the men holding Stiles—because _of course_ Allison and her family would have a creepy torture basement.

The man brought Stiles inside, opening up a door off the living room and tossing him in. Stiles went tumbling down the stairs, hearing a crunch in his left wrist halfway down. He landed in a heap at the bottom and stared at his wrist for a moment, trying to decide if it was worth it to heal it.

A whimper sounded from deeper in the basement, and Stiles whipped his head around to see Erica and Boyd, strung up by their wrists. Both of them had tear tracks on their face and tape over their mouths, and were eyeing him warily.

“Oh my God,” slipped out of his mouth. He had never said those words himself, always getting a bit annoyed with Scott when he said them, but now they flowed out naturally with the shock of seeing Erica and Boyd.

He scrambled to his feet, rushing over to help them. Erica and Boyd both frantically shook their heads at him, but Stiles was too worried to care. He grabbed at Erica’s binds, only to be flung back as his hand seized from the electricity flowing through the wires. The lights in the house flickered.

Stiles looked down at the large electrical burn. There was enough electricity to prevent the werewolves from shifting, and keep them in extreme pain. It was cruel for the sake of being cruel.

Gerard’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs. “They were trying to warn you. It’s electrified.”

_No shit._

Stiles saw the fresh round of tears in his friend’s eyes, and felt the rage swell. Their fear was nearly palpable, but it did nothing to feed Stiles, only anger him. “What are you doing with them?”

Gerard smirked. There was too much smirking on that man’s face. It didn’t look right. “At the moment, just keeping them comfortable. There's no point in torturing them, they won't give Derek up. The instinct to protect their Alpha's too strong.”

Stiles realized after a moment that that meant they hadn’t relinquished Derek as their Alpha; they were still part of the pack. He breathed a quick sigh of relief and sent a mental _I told you so_ to the self-deprecating Alpha.

“Okay...” Stiles drew the word out. “So, what are you doing with me? Because Scott can find me, all right? He knows my scent.” Stiles began to babble, “It's pungent, you know? It's more like a stench. He could find me even if I was buried at the bottom of a sewer covered in fecal matter and urine.”

Gerard, instead of getting riled, just gave Stiles a humorless smile. “You have a knack for creating a vivid picture, Mr. Stilinski. Let me paint one of my own. Scott McCall finds his best friend bloodied and beaten to a pulp. How does that sound?”

And then Gerard was beating the crap out of him. And Stiles had to take it without healing, because he was supposed to be 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.

So he let Gerard break three of his fingers, let him split his lip, let himself get a concussion. A rib even snapped after one vicious kick. He screamed and cried like he was supposed to.

Because he knew this wasn’t about him. He was simply a message. 

A message to Scott: _Look what happens when you don’t follow my rules._

A message to Erica and Boyd: _Look what I can do to your friend._

A message to Derek and Peter: _Look what happens when you involve humans._

Stiles was innocent, and Gerard let that in itself speak volumes. He was not above hurting the innocent to get what he wanted.

Gerard was only just stopped from breaking Stiles’ leg when Chris entered. “That’s enough,” he said. 

Stiles looked up at him from the ground, breathing heavily and feeling blood drip out of his nose and onto the floor. Boyd and Erica had struggled at first, trying in vain to stop Gerard. But they only succeeded at wearing themselves out, and now were slumped in their binds. They perked up again at the arrival of the newcomer, baring their teeth at the hunter.

Gerard squared his shoulders at his son, staring him down. “Chris.”

“Gerard.” Chris glanced at Erica and Boyd, and then down at Stiles. His face hardened. “I think you’ve made your point.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide that, son of mine?” Gerard was eyeing Chris warily.

“This is against the code, Gerard, this is wrong. We don’t do this.”

“ _You_ don’t do this. I do what is necessary to protect my family. The Hale pack must pay for what they did to Kate. For what they did to your wife.” Gerard, seeing Chris flinch, pushed on. “Think of her; she would have wanted this.”

Chris didn’t answer.

Gerard neared his son, slipping a knife into the blond’s hand. “Think on it, son.” With that, he made his way up the stairs, leaving the widow alone in the basement with the teenagers.

It was silent in the room for a moment. Finally, Chris said, “Stiles, can you walk?”

Stiles nodded, looking up at Chris pathetically.

“Good. Go home.”

Stiles stood, taking a quick peek in Chris’ mind to see what the catch was. He couldn’t find one. He glanced at Erica and Boyd, remembering Derek’s heartbroken face when he found out they were gone. “Not without them,” he said. It was easy to make his voice wobble slightly, as if he was afraid.

Chris’ eye twitched, and the wolves frantically shook their heads. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands, Mr. Stilinski. Leave now, before I change my mind.”

Stiles limped up to Chris, looking him in the eye. “Let them go or I’ll tell Allison that you stood by while I got tortured. I don’t think she’ll like you very much after that. She’ll jump right into Gerard’s arms—right where you don’t want her.”

Chris looked as if he was about to use the knife his father gave him, but Stiles pushed on. 

“They’re innocent, too. Their only crime is their species, which they chose for themselves.”

“Why would anyone choose to be a monster?” Chris bit out, but the slump of his shoulders told Stiles he was resigned.

Instead of answering, Stiles flicked off the switch controlling the electricity. The wolves slumped in their restraints. Stiles approached Erica first, gently peeling the tape from her lips. “Hey, Catwoman,” he said softly, and wiped the tears from her face. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her enough so she could pull her bound wrists over the hook in the ceiling. She dropped against him, sobbing into his shoulder. He shushed her gently, using a bit of his demon strength to lift Boyd with one arm so he didn’t have to let go of Erica. Both of the wolves were much too tired to notice.

Boyd was the first to be able to stand on his own, and pulled Erica (and by extension, Stiles) into a bear hug, snuffling into her neck. Chris had made his exit somewhere in the middle, leaving the door open and making sure Gerard was staying away.

They helped each other up the stairs, the wolves growing stronger by the second while Stiles remained broken. “I don’t have my Jeep,” Stiles said, remembering that it was still sitting where he left it at the school. His father was probably worried sick.

“Death trap,” Boyd muttered good naturedly, and both Stiles and Erica grinned shakily at the effort to lighten the mood.

The trio continued down the street, refusing to stop until they were well out of sight from the Argent house. Stiles pulled the shattered remains of his phone out of his pocket, but it wasn’t coming to life anytime soon.

“Mine’s busted,” he muttered.

Erica’s face twisted into a grin. She pulled a cell out from her back pocket. “It’s Chris’, I think. I saw it on our way out the door.”

“I could kiss you,” Stiles muttered, and Boyd eyed him warily. “But I won’t,” he added quickly. “Call Derek, have him pick us up.”

Erica did just that, and both her and Boyd teared up at the sound of their relieved Alpha. Derek was there within a few minutes, probably breaking every traffic law known to man. He scooped his betas into his arms, pressing his nose into their necks and breathing deeply. Stiles looked away, inexplicably feeling as if he was intruding on something private.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to break this up, but I really need a ride home. My dad is probably, you know, still wondering where I am.”

Derek raised his eyes to meet Stiles’, and the gratitude in them made stiles want to look away. He didn’t deserve that. “Sure,” Derek agreed, voice rough. They all climbed in Derek’s camaro, Stiles riding shotgun while Erica and Boyd huddled together in back. Derek was watching them in the rearview mirror more than he was watching the road, but they eventually arrived near Stiles’ house. He would have a lot of explaining to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles made Derek drop him off a few blocks away, incase his father was monitoring the streets.

He limped to his house, silently letting himself in. He could hear the faint purr of Derek’s car as the wolves drove away. Stiles sensed his father in his room, and gently climbed the stairs. The stench of fear and anxiety was pouring off of his father in waves as the man paced his son’s room.

“Yeah, I'm not finding any clues here,” he said, nearly clutching the phone so hard it broke. “Listen, if he—if he shows up at the hospital—okay, thanks.” The man hung up. He spoke aloud to the room, misery seeping from his pores. “Oh, come on, Stiles. Where the hell are you?”

“Right here.” Stiles said quietly. His father whipped around, tears flooding the man’s eyes as he rushed to pull his son into his arms. John pulled back to examine his son’s face, seeing the black eye and cuts. “It's okay,” he tried to assure his father, “Dad, it's okay.”

The Sheriff was having none of it. “Who did it?”

“It's okay. It was just a couple kids from the other team,” he lied, knowing it would be best for his father. “You know, they were really pissed about losing and I was—I was mouthing off, you know.” It was completely plausible. Stiles never figured out when to shut up. “The next thing I know—”

“Who was it?” his father demanded again.

“Dad, I don't know. I didn't even see them, really.”

“I want descriptions.” The Sheriff looked inches away from blowing a fuse.

“Look, Dad, come on. It's not even that bad.” Aside from the fingers and the rib and the concussion, he meant. But those could be hidden.

“I—I'm calling that school. I'm calling them and I'll personally go down there, and I'm gonna pistol-whip those little bastards! I’ll—”

“Dad!” he interrupted. Stiles couldn’t describe the surge of emotion that came with seeing his father this protective over him. Needlessly protective, but it was nice all the same. Stiles suddenly felt guilty for letting his father go through that. “I just—I said I was okay.”

“God,” his father muttered, pulling his son into another hug. Stiles couldn’t even find it in him to flinch at the name.

* * *

Once Stiles calmed his father down, steering the man downstairs to relax with some baseball, he was able to collapse onto his bed. His body was exhausted; he refused to use any power to heal himself. He could hardly believe pain could be so taxing on the body. How did humans do this all the time?

He laid there for nearly an hour, wondering where Scott was. The boy was probably with Isaac. Stiles could smell Scott’s guilt at having a new friend, at hanging out with Stiles less. Scott and Stiles had only ever had each other, and Scott was unsure of what to do with more than one person wanting to spend time with him.

So Stiles had backed off. Scott hated having to choose, so Stiles chose for him. The wolf was enjoying a friend who was like him, who could keep up with him like Stiles couldn’t. Stiles had hoarded Scott long enough; it was time for someone else to get a chance.

Stiles wondered if Scott even cared what had happened to him tonight. Maybe he was too busy out with Allison or Isaac. Even Derek hadn’t seemed very concerned, too overwhelmed at getting back his Betas.

A knock sounded at his bedroom door, pulling him out of his thoughts. Immediately, he called out, “Dad, I said I'm fine,” before the scent of vanilla and lilac flooded the room. Stiles raced off the bed and flung open the door, seeing Lydia on the other side.

“Hi,” she said, looking nervous. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and she smelled of emotional turmoil. Stiles remembered, with a start, that Jackson had most likely died from the wound he inflicted on himself.

He repeated, dumbly, “Hi.”

She gave a small smile. “Your father let me in.”

“He did?” Stiles peeked his head out of the doorway, seeing his father down the hall giving him a thumbs up. Stiles sighed, “Yeah, of course he did.”

He stepped aside and let her into his room, to which she immediately made herself at home on his bed. She blinked up at him, only just now noticing the state of his face. “What happened to your—”

“Oh, uh—yeah, no, it's nothing,” he stuttered to assure her. “Don't worry about it. I'm fine. How are you doing?”

That seemed to have broken the dam, and tears spilled out onto her cheeks. “They won't let me _see_ him,” her voice broke. “I'm supposed to give him something. He kept asking for it back.” And she dissolved into tears, muttering over and over about how she had to give him something. She clutched at the key on a chain around her neck, sobbing.

Stiles immediately wrapped himself around her, whispering soothing words into her ear. The banshee in her had been awoken by Peter’s bite, and it knew something was wrong with Jackson’s death. Perhaps the boy was not completely gone.

Seeing her mascara running, Stiles made a dash to the bathroom. “Hey, sorry, I don’t have any tissues, so, uh—” he handed the roll of toilet paper to her, to which she rolled her eyes.

“That’s fine.” She took a few squares, though, dabbing at her eyes. “I'm such a mess.” He opened his mouth to contradict her, when her phone suddenly vibrated. She glanced at the screen, frowning. “Scott is trying to reach you.” It buzzed again, and she raised a delicate eyebrow. “You're gonna want to read this.”

On the phone was an image of a fully transformed kanima, with Scott’s typing below, _‘ths is what jckson will b if we cant stop it. any ideas???’_

Stiles pondered on the question for a moment, before realizing that Lydia wasn’t freaking out about what she had just seen. He eyed her warily.

“How much do you know about this stuff?” he asked. Had the girl finally realized what she was?

“Pieces,” she answered. “Half of it's like a dream.”

“And the other half is a nightmare,” he finished for her.

“I don’t care. I can help him.”

And rage is swelling up in Stiles’ chest. Rage that a creature as magnificent as Lydia could be heartbroken over a creature as vile as Jackson. “See, that's the problem. You—you don't care about getting hurt.”

“Do you?” she demanded of him. ”Would you not do the same?”

Stiles paused. He realized with no small amount of surprise and certainty that he _would._ He would risk his life for this small group of people, this pack that he had actually grown fond of.

Her face radiated triumph. “I’m going to save Jackson. Are you going to help me or not?”

And so Stiles was roped into helping his enemy from a different enemy. At least he got to ream Jackson with his Jeep. 

Scott carried out his plan that he decided to keep from even his best friend, betraying both Gerard and Derek.

Stiles smelled the emotional pain that poured from Derek when Scott told him he wasn’t Scott’s Alpha. The man had just nearly lost Erica and Boyd, and now lost Scott on the same night. Derek wasn’t groomed to be an alpha. That was his mother’s job, meant to be passed down to Laura. But Derek was _trying,_ and it seemed like all he could do was fail. 

Stiles skin felt heavy with the large amount of pain coming from Derek. 

Derek’s mind kept repeating what Gerard had said, that he was _‘the only piece that doesn't fit’._ Derek looked around. Erica and Boyd were still at the loft, regaining their strength. Isaac was standing behind Scott, looking more worried for the teen than he was for his own alpha. His throat felt thick when he swallowed. Even Stiles, Derek noticed, was beaten black and blue. He couldn’t even keep the human of his pack safe.

Stiles itched to comfort Derek. His emotional turmoil tasted bitter on the back of his tongue. The feeling was so unusual he didn’t know what to do with it. 

Then Lydia had to be a hero and bring Jackson back from his mindless kanima state. Stiles was still all for the plan that they just gut the boy and leave him for the vultures, but every time he brought it up he was shot down. 

Lydia stood in front of the kanima, heart racing, and held the flimsy key out. Slowly, lost in a memory, Jackson transformed back to his mostly human state. He looked down at the key, eyes wide.

Derek and Peter made their move, each sticking a handful of claws in Jackson and ripping through his midsection. The boy slumped when they let go, but Lydia was there to catch him. They exchanged vows of love, and Jackson’s heart stopped beating.

If only it could have stayed that way.

Without the Kanima in the way, the wolf in Jackson’s head was free. Jackson’s heart gave a lurch, and then frantically started beating again. He opened his eyes, flashing blue, and roared.

Drama queen.

Stiles ended up having to get the grill of his car fixed, and Jackson and Lydia said their peaceful goodbyes. Scott and Allison broke up, Allison needing some time away from the werewolf drama that kept killing her family. Scott was confident that they would eventually get back together.

And Stiles wondered, staring at his ceiling that night while he pretended to sleep for his Dad’s sake, how long this calm would last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit discouraged from writing this fic. I'm nearly caught up with what I have written so far, so updates might be a little slower. I'll do my best.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thank you all for the support I got. I got some amazing comments and they truly made my week. I'm so grateful for all of you. Now read on, my lovelies. 
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are miiine.

Things were good for a while.

The group of teens finished out the school year; Erica and Boyd accepted back with welcome arms. The most stressful thing they had to deal with were finals and Peter being a creep.

The summer passed uneventfully, the pack growing closer with every ‘mandatory pack night’ Derek called (which were really just an excuse for him to snuggle with his Betas, though no one called him on it). 

After the wake-up call of Erica and Boyd almost ditching the pack, Derek was making an effort to be a better Alpha. He legally took Isaac in as his ward, and began renting a loft in the city for him, Isaac, and Peter. The loft was open and bright, a startling change from his rotting house in the woods.

The pack had fun coordinating the design of the loft over the summer (although they were now banned from Ikea). Peter flitted in and out—he would disappear for days or weeks at a time. Derek didn’t seem bothered by it, and Stiles figured it really wasn’t worth it to ask.

Erica and Boyd also (finally) became a couple. The pack had to work together to set the oblivious teens up, but they finally took the hint after Scott and Isaac locked them in the closet together during a round of Truth or Dare. Stiles sported a bruise for a week from how hard Erica punched his shoulder once she found out it was his idea. (But her small smile and murmur of, “Thanks, Batman,” made it totally worth it.)

The air was calm, and remained that way until Jennifer Blake decided to rear her ugly face.

Stiles could smell the stench of the Darach the moment she entered the classroom their first day of junior year. He saw right past her meatsuit, perceiving the scarred hag underneath. 

She was weak, only barely pulling off her disguise. She should be a piece of cake to finish off.

All Darachs get their powers from different sources, and Stiles wasn’t sure how this one operated until the first bird flung itself against the window. He felt the energy transfer from the bird directly into the evil Druid. 

With a small smirk, the Darach demanded all of the nearby birds to sacrifice themselves to give her more power. The windows shattered with the force of the onslaught of all the tiny bodies. The screams of Stiles’ classmates filled the air, and a rush of energy surged into the Darach.

Okay, maybe not so easy to finish off, then.

She didn’t even have the tact to make sacrifices without others watching, so confident that no one would recognize her for what she was. She played the part of a scared innocent nearly as well as Stiles did, so much so that even Danny was consoling her gently.

The human sacrifices began a week later.

It took Stiles until the third victim to realize the pattern. Jennifer started with a girl named Heather, one of Erica’s childhood friends. Heather was taken from her own basement during her birthday party, the stench of fear and Darach still in the air when the pack rushed downstairs at her scream.

The second victim, a kid Lydia stumbled upon at the pool, had a purity ring on his right finger. Stiles didn’t think anything of it at the time, but when Emily went missing from her tent in the woods, and her girlfriend smelled strongly of lust and innocence, Stiles finally put the pieces together.

Virgins. Jennifer was sacrificing virgins for her own power. Stiles had only just began speculating who could be next when the pattern changed. Kyle, a ROTC guy, was slaughtered right outside of Deaton’s clinic. Stiles knew immediately that the man was no virgin, and wondered what caused the Darach to change her pattern.

Druids, even the dark ones, were creatures of habit. They worked in sequences. Stiles mapped out the victims and sacrifice locations on a wall of his room, using string to tie his erratic thoughts together. 

Lydia was becoming more and more submerged in her Banshee powers. With the spike of deaths in the area, her head was never getting rest from the screams of the dead. The poor doll didn’t even know what was happening to her. The ghosts in town didn’t tend to linger long, and never really bothered with Stiles. They knew better than to annoy someone higher up in the ranks than them.

Stiles often lingered inside Lydia’s head, searching for any clues. It wasn’t until the fourth pattern started that Lydia caught a glimpse of something useful. A Celtic five-fold knot. Tara had just died, a deputy his father was fond of. Lydia found herself drawing the knot on Mr. Westover’s board, catching fleeting images of the man’s death. She let out a scream.

Stiles searched his memories, digging for any combination of sacrifices that would fit this druid. So far, he had virgins, warriors, healers, and Tara and Mr. Westover. Tara used to teach before she was a cop…

His eyes flashed open, staring at his board. Philosophers. They would be killed and disposed of on the city’s telluric currents. He could feel the low thrum of energy that ran through the currents now, with the sacrifices feeding it. They were flowing to the center of the woods, to an old cut down tree…

Celtic beliefs said that druids would meet at nemeta. Stiles felt like kicking himself. Of course Jennifer was using the old tree on the Hale land as a nemeton. 

The nemeton was broadcasting a low level so supernatural energy; it had been for a long time now. Which would account for the high werewolf population, the banshee, and even Stiles being drawn here.

Only four groups had been targeted so far. The last one would have to be something more powerful than the rest. Druids did so love to be dramatic. 

Stiles grinned. Guardians. It was the only logical choice left. He guessed that Jennifer would kill her last philosopher at the memorial concert tonight, and then would move on to guardians. Stiles almost wanted to congratulate the Darach. He hadn’t had a puzzle this good in a long time. Human lives could be so boring.

Not thirty minutes later, Stiles heard the Banshee scream from the direction of the school. A smile crept over his face, only to vanish when the scream was cut off prematurely.

_Lydia,_ he panicked, already halfway to his Jeep in a rush before his mind could catch up to his actions. Lydia was not part of the sacrifices. The Darach must have gotten her.

Stiles growled. If that bitch thought she could change things up, she was dead wrong. Stiles tuned into Lydia’s thoughts, breathing a sigh of relief when he found that she was only unconscious, not dead.

He sped to the school, heart pounding when he saw his father’s patrol car in the parking lot. _Guardians._ Shit. He flew out of his vehicle, screaming, “Dad!”

Instinct led him down school hallways, until he was directly outside the Darach’s classroom.

The Sheriff was standing over Lydia’s slumped form in her chair, checking for any wounds. Melissa was doing the same to Scott, both having abandoned the concert when the piano wire snapped. The Darach was nowhere to be seen.

Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief, “You’re all okay.”

His dad didn’t look like he could speak.

Melissa nodded, “For now.” Lydia looked as if she was beginning to wake.

The Sheriff was silently freaking out within the safety of his own head, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. The woman had crushed his badge and knocked him back like it was nothing. And Scott had turned into some… monster.

Stiles didn’t expect his dad to be coherent any time soon.

Suddenly, there was a slight static that rose in the air, making Stiles’ senses go haywire. Lydia’s eyes shot open, and she let out a curdling scream.

The Darach appeared back in the room with a loud _crack,_ and grinned as she wrapped an arm around Melissa. They disappeared as quickly as Jennifer had arrived. 

“Mom!” Scott shouted, but even his reflexes weren’t quick enough to catch them.

The static hadn’t yet dissipated from the air. Stiles didn’t trust the bitch for one moment.

Tears were streaming down Lydia’s face. “Stiles,” she sobbed. “You have to…” the banshee hiccupped, unable to finish her words. _“Get to him!”_ she screeched, and Stiles barely had time to make it to his father before the Darach was back. 

She reached for John, smirk on her face, but her hand brushed Stiles instead. Her skin festered and burned where she had touched the demon. Her eyes widened, but she apparated away before Stiles could do anymore harm. The static charge cleared from the room completely.

Lydia collapsed, panting at the strain of the voices in her head. Stiles briefly took a peek, and winced at the onslaught of noise. Stiles, under the guise of helping her out of her bonds, put a hand to her temple. He muted to voices momentarily, and felt Lydia relax. This girl had saved his father; the least he could do was help relieve her of some pain.

She looked up to him with grateful eyes, as if she knew. Stiles wouldn’t even be surprised if she had figured it out by now, genius that she was.

Lydia’s phone chimed from where it had landed on the other side of the room. John brought it to her. Her face looked ages older by the light of the small phone. Her voice waivered, “It’s Allison. She says Jennifer took her dad.”

They had spent a few minutes getting Lydia out of her binds and checking her for injuries, when Scott’s phone rang as well. He glanced at the screen. 

“Who’s calling?” Stiles asked warily.

“Isaac. I don’t think I want to know about what.” He answered anyway, face hardening as he listened to Isaac’s rant. He looked at Stiles, “Isaac’s foster mother was taken.”

“Guardians,” Stiles supplied. “It’s the last knot. She’s taking the parents.”

The room fell silent. The Sheriff was the first one to speak, “Stiles, take Lydia home. I need to head into the station.” The man’s head was still reeling. What had his son gotten himself into?

“But Dad—”

“Stiles,” his father snapped. “Do not argue with me.”

Stiles looked to Scott for help, but the boy’s eyes were wet and staring directly at the floor. He had to swallow before he spoke. “I need to find my mom, Stiles. Maybe it would be best if you...” _stay out of the way,_ was the implied ending. 

Stiles looked away, jaw clenched. He kneeled next to Lydia, and gently inspected her neck again, though it was apparent she was fine. He couldn’t look at Scott right now. 

Footsteps raced down the hallway, and Erica was suddenly in the doorway, breathing heavily. “The sacrifices, it’s—”

“Jennifer, we know,” Scott finished for her. “She took my mom, Allison’s dad, and Isaac’s foster mom. Tell Derek I need to talk to him.”

Erica shook her head. “Derek’s sick. Jennifer came by the loft half an hour ago and knocked Derek around for a bit. Boyd and I found him on the ground. He’s coughing up some nasty black shit, and we can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

“Where’s Boyd now?” Stiles asked.

“Watching him,” she answered. “He’s supposed to call me if Derek gets any worse.”

The Sheriff seemed completely overwhelmed. “I’ll put a BOLO on Jennifer Blake. Stiles, remember what I told you. You take Lydia to her house and then go straight home. I don’t want you involved with this.” 

“Dad, I’m alread—”

“Stiles!” Sheriff snapped. “Straight home.” With a stern look to his son, he brusquely left the room.

“I’ll call Allison,” Scott said, talking to Erica. “Her and Isaac need to meet us at Deaton’s. He’ll know what to do.”

“I brought my Jeep,” Stiles chimed in. “We can—”

“No, Stiles.” Scott looked Stiles in the eye for the first time since Melissa had been taken. “Go home.” Scott’s eyes burned.

With that, he grabbed Erica’s arm and left after the Sheriff, leaving Stiles crouched over Lydia. Hurt radiated off of Scott in waves, bitter that his mom was stolen while Stiles’ father remained unharmed.

“Can you stand?” he asked her. She nodded, and he helped her to her feet. Gently, he inspected her neck. A bruise was already forming, but it didn’t look like there would be any lasting damage to her trachea.

“My Jeep’s just out front,” he said, and threw her arm over his shoulder. They slowly made their way outside. Stiles’ Jeep was sitting right where he left it, keys still in the ignition and driver’s door half open. He was almost grateful the the supernatural in this town kept its citizens too afraid to notice the simple stuff. The crime rate caused by humans was surprisingly low.

He helped Lydia up into the vehicle, closing the door behind her. Lydia jumped when he hopped in, nerves still on edge. He pulled out of the lot, beginning the drive to Lydia’s house.

Lydia’s voice was rough when spoke. “What is Jennifer?”

Stiles breathed deeply through his nose. “A darach. Like a druid, but gone bad.”

“The sacrifices are for… power?”

He nods.

“And… what am I?”

Stiles hands flex on the wheel. “You’re a banshee. The Wailing Woman. You’re… a bit closer with death than most. That’s why you kept finding all those bodies. Normally banshee’s can predict death, but since your abilities were still weak you couldn’t sense them until after they died.” He paused. “Or at least that’s what Gerard’s bestiary suggests.” It was a weak lie, a cheap addition that she didn’t call him on.

It was silent in the Jeep for a few minutes, Lydia taking it all in. They stopped at a red light and Lydia turned in her seat, boldly staring Stiles in the eye. “And what are you?”

He avoided the question, slowly pulling through the intersection as the light changed. “Why do you ask that?”

“You don’t feel right. You haven’t since I was attacked at the winter formal.” She let out a shaky breath. “When I look at you, I feel like I did when Peter was haunting me. Or when I found the boy at the pool. I feel… death. What are you, Stiles?”

Stiles throat felt horribly tight. He swallowed. “Right now, I am very worried about the wellbeing of my childhood crush.”

Lydia pushed, still, “When Jen—the Darach tried to touch you, she was burned.”

“I figured out what she was. Mistletoe is poisonous to Darachs. I must’ve still had some on my hands.”

Lydia ignored the lie, simply studying his face like he was a puzzle. And to her, he probably was. He pulled up infront of her house, putting the Jeep in park. 

“I’ll figure it out eventually, you know.”

_I know,_ he thought, _and I wish you wouldn’t._ Instead, he gave her a small smile. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

She started to exit the car when a shiver wracked through her body. “Stiles,” she said, voice wavering. “You said Banshees can predict death.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway, “Yes.”

“Then is that why I feel like this?”

Stiles eyes whipped to Lydia, taking in her sudden pale face and shallow breathing. “Lydia? Lydia, like what?” He reached a hand out to steady her; her skin was ice cold.

Slowly, her eyes raised to meet his. She whispered, “Like I need to scream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't cliffhangers so satisfying? We are officially caught up to what I have finished. But I will do my best to keep up with the schedule I've set. ♥


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, this just took a while.

“Lydia,” Stiles asked, reaching a hand over to place on her shoulder. She shook. “Lydia, what do you feel? What’s happening?”

“Drowning,” she mumbled. Her eyes were far away. “So cold.” 

“Who, Lydia?”

“Scott, Allison, Isaac.” Shivers wracked her body. “So, so cold. They’re going to drown.”

Stiles eyes narrowed. “Going to? So it hasn’t happened yet.” Lydia’s banshee powers must be stronger now, if she was sensing deaths before they happened instead of just finding bodies.

“Soon,” she muttered, rubbing her hands together to bring warmth. 

“Are they going to have an accident?” he asked her. He couldn’t think of a river in town deep enough for a car to fall into, and this time of year no body of water was cold enough to make Lydia shiver like this.

Lydia shook her head. “No, it’s deliberate. They’re going to do it at Deaton’s.” She closed her eyes, concentrating for a moment. “For the nemeton. They’re going to do it in place of their parents.”

Stiles opened his mouth to rant about how stupid of an idea that was, when Lydia have a harsh shake and said, frantic, “We need to go. Now. They need us.”

He nodded, immediately pulling away from the curb. “Yes ma’am.” 

“Will it work?” she asked him, cranking up the heat and placing her hands in front of the vents. 

Stiles figured there was no point in lying. “I can’t be sure. It will buy their parents some time, but will also make the nemeton more powerful.”

“Which will make Jennifer more powerful,” Lydia finished, and Stiles nodded, grimly stepping on the gas harder.

Within five minutes, the pair were rushing into Deaton’s office. Stiles made sure Lydia crossed first, allowing her to break the line of salt Deaton had placed.

Lydia pinned everyone in the room with a glare. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands. Tubs were already set up, each filled to the brim with ice water.

Erica opened her mouth, most likely to give a sarcastic reply, when Deaton spoke. “Ah, Lydia, I’m glad you’re here.” He didn’t seem riled in the least by their appearance. “You can help.”

Scott glared at Lydia and Stiles for a moment, upset that they disobeyed him. He chose not to pick the fight, instead asking Deaton, “What’s the plan?”

“Essentially, you, Allison, and Isaac need to be surrogate sacrifices for your parents.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “We die for them?”

Erica chimed in, “But he can bring you back.” Her smile faltered. “You can... you can bring them back, right?”

“You remember the part where I said it was dangerous?” Deaton’s face was grave, and the three nodded solemnly. “If it goes right, the three of you will be dead for a few seconds, but there's something else you need to think about. This is a dangerous thing for more reasons than one. You'll be giving power back to the Nemeton, a place that hasn't had power for a long time. This kind of power is like a magnet. It attracts the supernatural, the kind of things that a family like the Argents can fill the pages of a bestiary with.”

Deaton turned in a circle to look them all in the eye. “It will draw them here, like a beacon. ”

Isaac gave a cocky shrug, “Doesn't sound any worse than anything we've already seen.”

“You'd be surprised at what you have yet to see,” Deaton replied, and Lydia locked eyes with Stiles. The demon felt shame burn his cheeks red.

Scott, ever the leader, pushed on. “Is that it?”

Pfft. As if Deaton ever explained anything in one go.

“No,” the dark-skinned man replied. “It'll also have an effect on the three of you. You won't be able to see it, but you'll feel it every day for the rest of your lives. It'll be a kind of a darkness around your heart, and permanent, like a scar.”

It was silent in the room for a moment, and then Isaac nodded. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” Allison added, locking eyes with Isaac. The pair smiled faintly at one another.

“If it will save my mom, I’ll do anything,” Scott finally said.

Deaton nodded, “Okay, the three of you will get in. Each of us will hold you down until you're essentially... well, dead.” Erica rolled her eyes. “But it's not just someone to hold you under. It needs to be someone who can pull you back, someone that has a strong connection to you, a kind of emotional tether.” He turned toward the two blonds. “Erica, since you and Isaac are both Derek’s betas, you’ll help him. I’ll hold Scott, and Lydia, you can hold Allison.” 

Everyone moved to their assigned tub, and Deaton seemed to finally realize he had forgotten someone. “Ah, Mr. Stilinski, I’m afraid there isn’t much for you to help with.”

“Fine,” he snapped. Stiles was nearly biting his nails with nerves. Lydia’s banshee powers could only sense the death, not whether or not they’d come back to life. He watched as the trio stepped into their tubs full of ice and herbs, their teeth instantly set chattering. They looked like a perfect picture of how Lydia shook only half an hour before.

Slowly, their respective “emotional tether” pushed their shoulders down and Stiles looked on, helpless, and the people he’s come to care about were pushed under.

They held their breath instinctively for as long as they could, but eventually the strain was too much. Stiles listened as they gasped for air where there was none, taking in lungfuls of water instead.

Erica’s muscles flexed, straining to keep Isaac under as he fought against it. The struggling in each tub eventually stopped, their hearts achingly slow. Within a dozen beats, the three hearts had synced and were now beating in tandem. The spells Deaton placed on the water would keep them alive for longer than most, allowing them to hover on the edge of life and death long enough for the door to open wide.

Lydia had tears in her eyes, as did Erica, but they continued to hold on even though their forearms were numb.

Stiles turned, a movement in the corner of the room catching his eye. Death stood in the corner, leaning on his cane and gazing emotionlessly at the tubs.

“No,” Stiles blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Four sets of eyes flickered over to him. Erica seemed annoyed, Deaton unperturbed, while Lydia’s brow was furrowed. She could sense Death nearby even though she couldn’t see him like Stiles could. Death simply looked curious.

“I’m going to the lobby,” Stiles gritted out, eyes not leaving Death’s own. He could feel Death at his back as Stiles walked out of the room. Once they’re out of earshot—even from werewolves thanks to Deaton’s wards—Stiles reared on Death and hissed, “This doesn’t concern you.”

The old man raised a brow, remaining calm. “They’re going to die, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Not for long,” Stiles disputed. “Surely you can tell they’ll be brought back to life.”

“The natural order—”

“Will be upset, I know,” Stiles interrupted. “But I know you can tell the natural order in this town is already pretty fucked.”

Death tilted his head, pausing. “Yes,” he agreed. “So many taken before their time.”

“And it will only get worse if those three don’t make it out of here alive.” Death appeared to consider it. “If I can bring you the one responsible for this chaos, will you allow the surrogate sacrifice?”

Death seemed amused. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

Stiles shrugged. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“You’re a cocky little one, aren’t you, demon?” Death said, but had a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, I suppose I’ll allow it. But there will be repercussions, you know.”

“There always are.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “But we’ll be ready for them. Should I meet you somewhere?”

“No need,” Death answered. “I’ll be watching.” With that, he disappeared.

Stiles frowned. “That wasn’t creepy,” he muttered under his breath. Stiles made his way back into the back room, just in time for the three sluggish heartbeats to grind to a halt.

Everyone could sense the change in the room, the overwhelming silence that no one could tell before. Deaton turned to Lydia, who seemed dazed. “Lydia? What do you see?”

Lydia blinked groggily, before giving him a shaky smile. “It’s okay. I don’t want to scream.”

Deaton and Erica let out a sigh of relief. “How long do we wait?” Stiles asked. 

“It’s hard to say,” Deaton answered. “Time moves differently in the dream world. It shouldn’t take long for the Darach’s magic to sense the sacrifice. They only need to be completely dead for a short period of time.”

Erica snorted. “So what? We just wait for them t—”

Three bodies simultaneously flung themselves out of the tubs, gasping for air and sending droplets of freezing cold water all over the room. The trio shivered, but otherwise seemed okay.

Lydia was the first to move, pulling Allison into a giant hug. Erica also lept onto Isaac’s back, wrapping herself around him and laughing almost hysterically with relief. Scott looked at Stiles, his crooked jaw clenching and unclenching with emotion. Finally, he let out a sigh and scooped Stiles into a one-armed hug.

Stiles hugged back tightly, not caring that his clothes were getting wet. He grabbed the back of Scott’s neck, relieved to feel the wolf sag against him, sniffling. “We’ll find her,” Stiles assured him. “Don’t worry.” 

Scott nodded into Stiles neck, then moved on to hug the others. Stiles could see in their minds that the image of the Nemeton had been planted, and they would search for it soon.

Their celebrations were cut short by Erica’s phone ringing. She untangled herself from the mass of limbs to answer, immediately putting it on speaker.

“Boyd?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Derek.” Boyd’s voice was tinny through the phone. “He’s worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting as I write from now on, so I'm not entirely thrilled with this chapter. Feedback is always appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It’s been a long time. I started college—isn’t that fun. I’ve been pretty busy and when I wasn’t busy I couldn’t really find the motivation to write. It’s not this story specifically, but just writing in general. But this story WILL get finished. It’s almost the end of the semester and I only have three more finals before I’m free for the holidays.
> 
> TW: This chapter is a biiiiit more graphically violent. If you want more details, please see the end notes.

Stiles grumbled under his breath as he drove to Derek’s loft. He had been _ordered_ by Scott to look after Derek so Boyd could help them track down their parents. It wasn’t that Stiles didn’t understand—Scott was worried about his mother and wanted the best chances at getting her back. Stiles didn’t really fit into that equation, so he was stuck with babysitting duty.

Stiles figured Jennifer had attacked Derek since he was the only one (besides Peter, but no one knew where that creep was) who knew where the Nemeton was. 

He parked in front of the apartment complex and saw Boyd waiting on the sidewalk, palm outstretched and face expectant. 

“No,” Stiles said, clutching Roscoe’s keys to his chest. 

Boyd rolled his eyes. “I need a vehicle, Stilinski. Your piece of crap will do.”

Rude. “Insulting me is not the best way to get my Jeep.”

“I can drive it with the keys or I can tear into the dash and hotwire it.” Boyd raised a brow. “It’s your choice.”

Sighing heavily, Stiles handed the keys over. “I shouldn’t have taught you how to do that.” Boyd shook his head, smiling slightly. He hopped in the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, quickly pulling out of the driveway. “Derek doesn’t give your evilness enough credit!” Stiles shouted after his Jeep.

Boyd only flipped him the bird out the driver’s window.

Stiles jogged up to Derek’s loft, grimacing at the smell as he got closer to the door. It smelled like death—like something had been dead for days.

He let himself in, immediately identifying the source of the smell as their local resident alpha. Derek was lying on the couch, his breathing shallow and face gaunt. He had black smears near his mouth and a dirty dishrag balled up in his fist.

Stiles feels no desire to feed off of Derek’s pain. He doesn’t examine why.

“Hey there, Sourwolf,” Stiles called cheerfully.

Derek jumped at the sound of his voice, showing just how out of it he was. He might not have noticed that Boyd even left. 

“You look like shit,” Stiles said, walking toward Derek.

Derek let out a weak laugh, which quickly turned into a cough. Stiles quickly helped him turn his head and spit some of the black sludge out. Stiles gently lifted Derek’s torso and sat on the couch, cradling the alpha’s head in his lap. 

Derek finally caught his breath enough to speak. His eyes found Stiles’, looking urgent. “Jennifer,” he rasped. “She’s—”

Stiles nodded. “She’s the Darach, we know.”

Derek’s face crumbled into sadness. “I thought we were… we had gone on a few dates…”

Stiles resisted the urge to gag. Gross. Jennifer and Derek getting it on? No, thank you. Still, he patted Derek on the shoulder. “That’s rough, buddy.”

Derek wiped some more goop away from the corner of his mouth. He rasped out, “It’s my fault. I should have seen it.”

Stiles shook his head, feeling a smidge of guilt deep deep down. Derek didn’t know she was the Darach, but Stiles did. “Don’t be stupid,” he argued, but could tell Derek was far from forgiving himself. Such a martyr. 

Still, Stiles felt bad for the guy. First Kate, then Jennifer. His girlfriends kept turning out to be psycho killers… Yikes.

Derek’s shoulders heaved in a heavy cough, and a line of black trickled out of his nose. He grimaced at the feeling, attempting to dab it away with the rag. “Gross,” he said, voice nasally.

Stiles chuckled, “Don’t worry, big guy, you’re still a 10 in my books.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “Was your father wrong about you not being gay?”

Stiles almost choked on his own spit. “You heard that?” 

Nodding, the werewolf laughed, and then immediately lost his breath with the cough that shook his body. Stiles gently scratched at his scalp, hoping to soothe him.

“I suppose the easiest term would be bisexual,” Stiles mused, trying to think of the modern day lingo for sexuality. “Although I might be closer to pansexual…” he _had_ snuck off once with both a vampire and a human one crazy night about seventy some-odd years ago. Pan was the closest word he could get when human terms didn’t include inter-monster relations.

“Well,” Derek’s voice was dry, seemingly amused. “I’m glad you’ve got that sorted out.”

Stiles teased, scratching his fingers absentmindedly. “Don’t be jealous just because I have my sexuality sorted out, mister.”

Derek huffed. “Please, I lived in New York for six years. If anyone has delved more into their sexuality here, it’s me.”

Stiles raised a brow at this. He didn’t make it a habit of learning others… preferences, but he had thought he had Derek’s figured out. He ignored the slight flutter in his stomach at the implications of what Derek had said, instead focusing on wiping a line of black goop that had leaked from the corner of the wolf’s mouth.

They stayed in companionable silence for a few minutes, Stiles still carding his fingers through Derek’s hair as the older man rasped out his breaths.

Finally, Derek spoke. “Talk to me... ” he said, and his face scrunched in pain. Stiles could tell that Derek was getting worse, that the pain was now hard for Derek to ignore. “Tell me anything. Just talk.” Derek smiled around a mouthful of black. “You’re good at that… talking.”

Stiles gave a small smile, and started to talk. He told Derek about his mother, about how Claudia was the strongest person he knew. How she never got angry with him, even though he was a hell child. (Stiles grinned internally at the pun.)

Stiles didn’t realize he had been talking for so long until he felt Derek go limp in his arms. Stiles’ eyes snapped down in alarm, only to find Derek had passed out from the pain.

Immediately, Stiles wrapped his fingers around Derek’s wrist and started taking his pain. Derek’s next breath came much smoother, and Stiles sighed in relief.

Stiles’ phone buzzed, and he quickly retrieved it from his pocket so it didn’t wake Derek up. He saw Scott’s name flash on the caller ID. “Tell me you have good news,” he whispered.

“Not quite. We found our parents, they’re safe,” the relief was palpable in his voice. “But Jennifer got away. We think she might be coming for Derek.”

Even at the sound of his name, Derek didn’t twitch in his sleep. He was completely exhausted—and completely defenseless.

Just as he had the thought, the same static filled the air, and a distant _pop_ sounded.

“Shit.”

“Exactly,” Scott’s voice was grim, though he couldn’t know the extent to which Stiles meant it. “We’re headed there now, but Stiles—be careful.”

“Always am.” He swiftly hung up the phone, eyeing flickering around Derek’s apartment warily. 

Jennifer’s voice echoed from the rafters—Stiles should have knowed she’d be a dramatic bitch. “Derek, darling,” she cooed. “You’ve been fun, but I’m afraid it’s time for me to move on.” Her laugh reverberated throughout the room. “Taking energy from you has been deliciously fun,” her voice trailed off as Derek’s face scrunched up in more pain in his sleep. Stiles doubted Jennifer knew he was here. Her voice turned pouty, “But those snot-nosed kids took away my final sacrifices.” She sighed. “Oh well, I guess I’ll have to sacrifice _you_ —” she apparated suddenly on the floor, spinning toward Derek and Stiles. Her face was contorted to reveal the scarred image of her Stiles first saw. Her fingers were bent into claws.

She stopped short when she notices Stiles, a look of surprise flitting across her face. It quickly morphed into rage. Stiles felt his own rage flair to match hers, then grow even larger. He had allowed her to stay in his city for too long, a mistake on his part. Now she had hurt those who belonged to _him_ , and she would pay.

Before she could get a word in edgewise, Stiles gave her a calm smile. His voice was steel. “Hello, Jennifer. Or should I call you Julia?”

A visible flinch went through the woman as he said the name. It brought a please smile to his lips. This was going to be fun.

“That’s right. I know all about you.” He quickly sifted through her memories, instinctively looking for the ones that would hurt the deepest. “Throwing a temper tantrum, taking power from other people. All because Kali didn’t love you back.”

Jennifer’s voice was faint. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” he asked softly, and she shuddered at his words. Stiles stood, gently resting Derek’s head back on the couch. “Poor little Julia, the emissary that fell in love with her Alpha.”

Her voice trembled. “How do you know these things?”

Stiles ignored her, continuing, “But Kali didn’t want you, did she? She wanted that other Alpha more than she ever wanted you. She _loved_ that Alpha more than she ever could have possibly loved _you_.”

Julia’s eyes flashed in anger. “She should have loved _me_! Not him!” she screeched. “I promised her the world and she threw me out.”

“So you killed her,” Stiles finished.

“I killed her _and_ that brick of an Alpha, Ennis! He didn’t deserve her. No one did.”

“So give it up,” Stiles said. “Derek had nothing to do with Kali. You have nothing to gain by killing him.”

“Balance,” she hissed. “You puny humans don’t understand. Some must die for others to remain strong.”

In a fit of rage, she swept forward, hand outstretched toward Derek. In a flash, Stiles was blocking her path, and his hand clenched around her wrist. He snapped the joint clean back, and Jennifer let out a scream of pain and rage.

Stiles laughed. His palm slapped over her face, fingers extended to wrap around her jaw and temple. He allowed his eyes to become black, and gave her his biggest grin. Her eyes met his from in between his fingers, wide and terrified. She panted under his hand.

“Balance? _I_ don’t understand balance?” His fingers flex slightly, and blood began to flow from her nose. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand.”

Stiles glanced over her shoulder, at where Death had suddenly appeared, waiting patiently, leaning on his cane. He had all the time in the world.

The demon chuckled, “But I know someone who would _love_ to teach you all about it.”

With that, he squeezed his hand, crushing her skull in his fist. Her body crumpled to the ground, and Death nodded at him once before a bright light made it impossible to see. When the light died down, both Death and Jennifer’s body were gone.

A stutter in Derek’s breathing made Stiles’ heart feel as if it was about to burst. He rushed over, turning Derek on his side as he coughed out an extraordinary amount of black goop. Derek’s eyes fluttered once, but the man slipped back into sleep, exhausted. His skin was looking less pale, and his breaths now sounded clear and healthy. He would be back to normal in no time. Stiles sighed in relief. 

A slow clapping rang out over the loft.

Stiles’ head shot up, startled like he never has been before. His heartbeat rushed in his ears, pounding out a song of panic.

He looked around for the source, only to lock eyes with Peter Hale, sitting at the top of the spiral staircase, a smirk on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles kills Jennifer by crushing her skull with his hand. Some blood is described. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I read each and every one and they are what motivated me to push on and finish this chapter. I love all of you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://katsa-the-graceling.tumblr.com/). Come rant about Sterek with me.
> 
> Also, credit where credit is due. I use [these](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewforum.php?f=137) amazing transcripts for direct dialog from the show.


End file.
